


Deterioration

by HigherMagic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Police, F/F, F/M, Hallucinations, M/M, Murder, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-30 00:49:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has a gift – he can see things. Things that others wouldn't see, motive and calm control between the splatters of blood and fractured mirrors. He solves crimes others simply can't. When bodies are piling up all around him, Dean starts to feel as though he's drowning in it, falling under the weight of his own helpless observations, until he finds something unbreakable. Unwavering. Castiel – if only the man was as good for him as he appears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the DeanCasBigBang challenge on LJ. Art done by abstradreams. Please go show her love on LJ or Tumblr!
> 
> This work contains non-canon character death, scenes of violence and scenes of mental instability. People who are triggered by blood, murder or mental and emotional manipulation should read with caution.

 

 

"And then, Winchester – _fucking Winchester_ – he walks in there like the King of fucking Egypt, takes one look at the room, and solves the whole thing, just like that!" A shot gets tossed back, slammed with more force than strictly necessary onto the overly-shiny surface of the bar. The man speaking bares his teeth at the sour taste of the cheap liquor and motions for another, snapping his fingers in impatience. "Man can talk to the damn cadavers, I'd put money to it."

There is a laugh from his companion, and a roll of the eyes. "Oh, Henricksen," comes the reply, a hand on the man's arm steadying his second shot and garnering his, admittedly, short-spanned attention. "You always were a superstitious man."

"I'm telling you," Henricksen replies, eyes cast down and words muttered against the lip of the glass. The shot goes down, just as burning as the first. It's unnatural, he thinks, how a man can stare into the soulless gaze of a corpse so steadily. "He weirds me out."

His companion's eyes gleam. "Well, I'm sure we can figure out a way to see if he's really as good as he says." A couple of twenties land on the bar and then Henricksen is alone. "Don't spend it all in one place," is what he hears and he snorts and motions for another shot, shoving forward the proffered money. He has work again in the morning, but if he has to spend another day with Winchester, a hangover can hardly make it worse.

 

 

There is a single line of blood across the wall – it has dripped somewhat, like someone had painted too much on with a single stroke and the brush had been overloaded with the blood. The wall had once been a muted mesh of blues and greens – tranquil and peaceful. Dean likes that; likes the façade of calm and quiet that this place has tried to maintain. Two streets from the main road, he doubts the former inhabitant gained much from their color choice other than a vague sense of contentment and a feeling of drowning.

"We found her in here," comes the lead investigator's voice, snapping Dean out of his thoughts. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket and follows the other man into what he can probably assume is the living room, complete with TV facing the window and a long leather couch, white, pressed against another blue wall.

There is more blood in here, the area sectioned off to stop people stepping in it, markers placed by splatter and spots against the hardwood floor. Dean frowns, pressing his weight against the wood. Laminate, he corrects himself. Recent laminate.

She's a younger woman, maybe one-hundred-twenty pounds, Dean estimates, five-foot-seven. He purses his lips and cocks his head to one side, considering her. Her hair is a fan of ginger around her head, threaded with her red blood, and he thinks that it is interesting to find her palette tastes are almost the exact opposite of herself. Where her walls are the ocean, she is fire. She is still dressed in soft sleep pajama pants and a tank top, white and showing her yellow bra underneath, and Dean looks up again, eyes looking over the blood splatter.

Without a word he turns around and walks back out to the corridor again. The clicks of the photographers' cameras are distracting, even though he knows that they will need images to support his eventual conclusion. He admires the brush stroke again – so high-up, as well. At her height she would have had to stand on the tips of her toes to reach. The drips, though, are at eye-level to what she might be – around Dean's chest.

Dean cocks his head to one side, and remains silent until the investigator rejoins him. "What do you make of it?"

"Did she have any pets?" he asks, squinting at the blood smear. He reaches out to graze his fingertips along it, before thinking better of it and pulling back. The floor below his feet is carpeted but there are no drips on the carpet itself.

"From what we could tell, she had all the fixin's for a rabbit or somethin' like that, but there's no sign it's been lived in."

Dean raises an eyebrow, turning to face the other man. "Show me."

Her bedroom is similarly tranquilly designed – light, pastel blues and greens make up one wall in a diamond pattern, the other three swathed with swirls of white and light yellow. It gives the illusion that the diamonds are being blown away by a wind, and Dean cannot help but smile at the sight of it. The colors are somehow relaxing. There is, indeed, an unused hutch at the foot of her bed, and Dean bends down but can neither see nor smell any sign that there was a living thing within it. Another cage on top of the hutch produces a similar conclusion, and yet -.

He squints, pressing forward, and inhales. "Have you ever owned pets, investigator?" Dean asks, fishing out a plastic glove and slipping it onto his hand, before he unhooks the cage door and lets it fall open. It is immaculately kept inside, the bedding evenly spread across the floor of it and only a fine layer of dust touching along the top of the water bottle attached to the side.

"I had a dog when I was a kid," comes the vaguely bored-sounding reply, and Dean gives a small hum of acknowledgement, and scratches at some of the fine bedding lining the bottom of the cage. He pulls back, and gestures for the other man to come see. There, at the bottom of the cage, is a small pool of blood also.

"She came home, to find that mark on the doorway – someone comes in, kills the pet and paints it across her wall to send a message."

"What kind of psycho uses a rabbit to send a message?" the investigator asks, already signaling some of the crew to catalogue this stain as well, in case it becomes important in the investigation, and to treat her bedroom as a crime scene also. "What message would you use some poor animal to send?"

Dean's eyes crawl over the redhead's bedroom. It is full of her personality, he thinks, or perhaps what someone was trying to make of her. Her eyebrows had been brown and Dean had been able to see the very tips of brown roots growing in – still caught in the teenage rebellion fifteen years later, he thinks, but in doing so she has never settled down. Pictures of her parents and her high school sweetheart are still sitting on her bedside table. She has created this cocoon for herself, of safety and nostalgia and fake, very fake, youth.

"That they could get into her haven," he finally says, still staring at the picture of the victim and her high school sweetheart, with black hair and dimples and dark brown eyes. Their arms are around each other and they are smiling wide – they look very much in love. "That they could rip her from her bubble and throw her out of her happiness within a moment's notice." He raises his eyes, then, to meet those of the investigator's. "Whoever did this to her knew her in the past. She escaped, or stole something. You may want to look into who Ms. Bradbury was before she came to our fair city."

The man blinks. "I never told you her name," he says, mildly amused but unsurprised that Dean already knows. With a small smile, Dean jerks his head to the mantelpiece, where there is a picture of her high school lacrosse team, a teenaged Charlotte Bradbury grinning and eagerly clutching the goalie's stick. Along the bottom are the team members' names. The other man huffs a laugh and nods when he understands, and Dean takes his leave of the place, figuring that he is no longer needed, and that the investigator will call him if there should be any trouble or any new leads.

It has been an early day – dawn is just breaking in the sky when Dean leaves the woman's residence. He had forgone coffee because the caffeine can make him overexcited and less methodical about his observations, but he is desperately feeling the need now, and so he goes to his local haunt and orders a double espresso shot (for the kick) and a toffee nut latte (for the pleasure of it). The espresso goes down a treat, just as he knew it would, and he can feel himself perking up as he nurses the latte and takes his favorite seat by the window, where he can see the door and the walkway outside. People watching, of course, supplies endless amusement for him, but it also keeps his senses sharp.

He is in the middle of debating whether the man is running because of his destination or his starting point when Sam joins him. Dean quirks a smile and, without a word, slides a berries-and-nuts yoghurt over to Sam, and his little brother sighs gratefully, tucking into the food without a word. Sam works late nights, and the early mornings are the only times that they can really cross each other without one of them having somewhere to be. And Sam, bless him, is hopeless at remembering to feed himself if Dean doesn't occasionally make the effort.

"Rough night?" Dean asks, taking another sip and deciding that, yes, the man is running because he is late for something – he'd gotten lost, judging by the map tucked into his breast pocket, and he is carrying something important if the way he is clutching his briefcase to his chest is any indication – maybe he's running to a meeting or a trade-off or he's selling illegal goods or (no, illegal trade pays better than that knock-off Rolex) -.

"Dean? Are you even listening to me?" Sam demands, cutting through Dean's internal monologue. The older Winchester sighs, rolling his eyes and taking another sip of latte.

"Of course I heard you," he replies, as though anything else would be the stupidest assumption ever. "The Jefferson case has run into a dead-end, and despite you and Ms. Matheson staying up all night to work it over, it looks like the bastard will walk." Dean leans forward, eyes gleaming. "Let me look at the case file, Sammy. I could have it for you like that." He snaps his fingers, earning a frown from Sam as he sits back and grins.

"I can solve cases perfectly fine without that freak brain of yours," he gripes, and Dean hums and nods. He knows that if Sam were really stuck, he would come to Dean, but the fact that he isn't means that there is still a way around that Sam just hasn't seen yet – sometimes Sam's brain is too smart for even him to figure out, Dean knows that. Something their mother gave them, he supposes, because their father sure as Hell didn't help the situation. "How was your morning? You're up kinda early, even for you."

Dean hums again, rolling his tongue until it is behind his teeth and clucking, once. "Had a suspected suicide a few streets away. Turned out to be a homicide. I think the vic was into something big, though." He smiles despite himself – listen to him, going on about plots and gangs and all sorts. If his dad could see him now. "Perp killed her rabbit and smeared its blood on the walls."

"Oh." Sam's face twists into an expression of disgust. "God. Why do they have to bring the animals into this?"

Dean shrugs one shoulder – it is an odd thing, he supposes, to care about what happens to the animal more than the person. At least the girl had had warning – she could have packed up and fled her space after the message was left, but instead she chose to stay – either because she thought she was smarter or because she thought she was safe. Dean is leaning towards the first – something about her eyes said that she was utterly shocked at being outsmarted, out-gunned and, ultimately, bested. He supposes a fiery girl must have some pride in her.

His latte is turning colder than he would like it and so he tips the rest back into his mouth, finishing it in two swallows, and sets the empty cup down. Sam has mostly finished his breakfast/dinner also, and Dean nods to it. "Walk back home?" he asks, and Sam nods with a small smile, taking one last bite before they both stand and throw their trash away. Dean waves to the barista behind the register as they leave, and pulls his jacket tighter around himself to brace against the cold air.

Their home is not far, but Dean takes his time, and Sam seems to be in no hurry either. His little brother is drooping, all hooded lids and sloping shoulders, and so Dean is careful not to hurry him home lest he accidentally run into a lamppost or something. When they return to the house, Dean lets his fingers brush against the stone lining the front of their driveway, the new layer of paint he applies every time he leaves the house and over which both he and Sam carefully step, and Dean counts the scuffs against their door. There are no more than before, and the letterbox is slightly open – the mailman had come. He knows better than to track through the paint, Dean supposes. Doesn't want to ruin those nice black boots and his carpeted van floor.

Their house is small but comfortable. Dean has sequestered half of the top floor to himself, and Sam gets most of the rest of the house by default. It hadn't always been that way, but Dean plays his music loud and Sam needs to sleep, so the brothers try and mostly stay out of each other's way when they are not deliberately spending time together.

Sam immediately trudges up to bed, and Dean makes a few sandwiches, wraps them in Clingfilm, and puts them in the fridge – for Sam later, since Dean is almost guaranteed to be out again when Sam awakens. That done, Dean checks the doors again and the downstairs windows, and takes the stairs two at a time to his own rooms at the top. He closes the door separating his mini-apartment from the rest of the house, and hangs up his coat and kicks off his shoes.

Compared to the almost obsessive neatness of the rest of the house, Dean's rooms are like a pigsty – only so far as that he goes out of his way to remember the disorder so reorganizing everything by this point would only serve to make him more confused. He likes the game of remembering which DVD case he returned which episode of _Star Trek_ to – was it even _Deep Space Nine_ or _Next Generation?_ On which shelf did Dean put _Cat's Cradle,_ was it next to his Zeppelin CDs or down the hall, next to his bed? All part of the game of Life, Dean thinks to himself with a small smirk, shaking his head, and he schleps off his long-sleeved shirt, toeing off his socks by his shoes so that he can dig his toes into the carpet, and he pulls his shirt over his head.

Normally he showers in the morning, but the investigator's call had messed up his routine, so he would have to make do now before maybe catching a few Zs before the morning melts into a time that one can really call a 'decent' time to get up. If there is anything that Dean's mind can find value in, it is the power of sleep.

He gets in the shower, scrubbing shampoo into his hair harshly enough to lull his brain into shutting down, trying to recover from the stain of red against the light walls and the surprised look in Ms. Bradbury's eyes. Whatever or whoever she had seen in her final moments; she had not expected them, that is for sure.

This is the third murder in as many weeks with similar M.O.'s. He knows the District Attorney doesn't see it yet – they likely never will, but it has been the same. Dean has seen it on the news, and read it in magazines, and cast his own eyes upon it, and it is the same. A girl who seemingly no one could want to do harm to, suddenly brutally slaughtered in her own home. Her only companions stolen away from her – in Ms. Bradbury's case, a rabbit. In Sarah Blake's case, her dog and her roommate. In Mrs. Milton's case, her daughter and her husband had both mysteriously disappeared before her murder. He had shown up eight days later in a ditch outside of Pontiac, and Mrs. Milton had been cradling the body of her dead child when she had been shot and carved up like a steak. They had all struck Dean as false, somehow – Sarah and Charlotte, something about them, he thinks, looked fake and shimmering. Glitter and glass across their faces. He had not seen the Blake or the Milton crime scene, otherwise he thinks he would have an answer already, but he cannot help that – it had, after all, occurred many miles away and far outside of his quasi-department's jurisdiction.

Sarah, Amelia, Charlotte…nothing connecting them that he can see, or tell from what information he can gather. They are too far apart, they say, too distant to be related at all. But he knows. Someone is hunting these women down and Dean has been sniffing at their trail from the first day.

Dean sighs, closing his eyes, and tips his head back to wash the shampoo out of his hair. He doesn't bother with his body aside from a cursory swipe of soapy hands, because he is about to try and catch some more sleep and however clean he is at the beginning, he won't be when he wakes up again – that is something he knows for certain. He sighs, shoving at the water until it turns off, and steps out, giving himself another cursory wipe-down, still with water droplets clinging to his shoulders, and collapses in his bed and pulls the sheet up around his eyes. The blackout curtains will give him a few more hours' respite, at the very least.

He dreams of a giant black panther, tracking down young does in the forest, and chasing them until they collapse from exhaustion and scream and scream and scream.

 

 

Dean jerks awake in a cold sweat, the smell of blood in his nose and coating the inside of his mouth, and he sighs out heavily, rolling onto his back, and throws an arm over his eyes. The same dream, this giant black cat hunting these women – young, female deer – down. There are more within the animal's sights, he knows – he will not stop at Charlotte Bradbury. If it is a he – Dean cannot tell. There is something distinctly vicious about the killings that Dean thinks only a woman would be capable of, but then again, it is too early to say.

He pushes the sheets to the floor and sheds his clothes, quickly using the towel from before to wipe himself down again and change into new clothes. The clock by his bed blares out dark red numbers in the form of _10:31,_ so Dean figures he has slept enough of the day away. Perhaps it is time to see if his investigator friend has found any leads on the Bradbury case.

When he plods downstairs, he finds a note slipped through his letterbox: _Come to the station when you get this. Got some history on our vic._ Dean smiles to himself, crumbling the piece of paper and lighting it on fire over the gas stove, before tossing it into the sink and opening the faucet over it. Nervous habit – whatever. He's burned his mail ever since so many years ago when their father had found Sam's letter from Stanford, and gone into such a brutish rampage that Dean had decided to up and join Sam instead of staying under his father's thumb. When a letter is burned, only a mind reader can find it again.

So, Ms. Bradbury does have a past. Dean grins – good, maybe he can finally convince everyone that there is more to this investigation than meets the eye. Dean pours himself another glass of water and downs it, before slipping on his leather jacket and boots again, and heading out into the brightly-lit midmorning.

 

 

Victor Henricksen is not an unimpressive man – Dean just finds him unimpressive. He has a character about him, a cold kind of charisma that Dean thinks dictators have, that make people bow to his words while fearing his fist up their ass. He is the kind of man who carries a weapon simply because he can. He also has the unfortunate quality of absolutely hating Dean's guts – Dean couldn't blame him, he _was_ the whole package, after all, but it was a matter that Victor's hatred of Dean made it very hard for him to believe anything Dean has to say, which merely slows things down.

Dean doesn't tolerate being slow about something.

"When will you start to believe that these three are connected?" Dean demands, gesturing between the case file of Charlotte Bradbury, and the two he himself is holding in his hands – that of Amelia Milton and Sarah Blake. "Each of the women," he begins, throwing down Sarah's file, "has something close to them gone missing – in Sarah's case, her dog and her roommate, leaving her totally defenseless. In Amelia's," the second file lands with a heavy sound, "her kid, and we can safely presume her husband was a target as well. Bradbury had a pet she clearly kept in good condition, and the killer used it to give her walls a paintjob."

"A rabbit and a child are hardly grounds for comparison, Mister Winchester," Henricksen replies with a raised eyebrow, not looking at Dean and merely thumbing through the Bradbury file. His eyelids are heavy and Dean narrows his eyes.

"Have you been drinking?"

"Is that any business of yours?"

Dean bares his teeth in a small, bitter grin. "Listen to me, Henricksen," he whispers, soft and low enough to get the other man's attention, and then without warning he slams his hand loudly on the desk, making Victor wince and stifle an expletive behind his teeth. "Women are dying here, and you've got your own head too far up your ass to see it!"

"Mister Winchester, I'd have you quiet down right now, or I will have you escorted from these premises."

"I'd just crawl back in," Dean hisses, biting out the words behind clenched teeth. His fingers curl and he knows Henricksen would never really throw him out – he's too valuable here, too damn _good_ at what he does. "Your dickish attitude towards me is gonna get another girl killed, you know that?"

"Thank you, Mister Winchester, I think I have all I need from you now."

Dean knows when he is being dismissed, but it doesn't stop the low growl threatening to spill from his mouth, so he shoves off from Victor's desk and takes his leave of the man's office – he considers slamming the door for a moment, just to spite him, but thinks better of it because he doesn't need to be calling the whole floor's attention to himself.

The investigator – Pike, Dean remembers his name being – waylays him on his way to the elevator. "Come here, Winchester, you're gonna wanna see this."

Pike leads Dean over to one of the computers sitting on his desk, all minimal desktop icons and dark blue swirl of a background that is the same for every desktop except Henricksen's, and pulls open a video file. On it, Dean watches the black and white, grainy images of people and animals walking past, going about their daily lives, before his eyes widen in realization when he understands what he is looking at.

"Is this outside Bradbury's apartment?" he asks, tilting the screen to see it better and rewinding the clip to the beginning.

Pike nods and hums, pressing his lips together. "Footage from the grocer opposite her gives us a corner view. No front-door image, unfortunately, but we can rule out anyone using her living room window to get in."

Dean barely controls his reaction – of _course_ there was no window access, is he kidding? Dean could have told him that. Instead he smiles tightly, and pauses the clip and sits back. "Any chance I can get these forwarded to me at home?"

Pike nods again, already pulling up an email file to attach the clips to, and Dean thanks him with a hand on his shoulder and takes his leave again.

Then, he pauses. "What about this history we got on the vic?"

"Oh, of course, right," Pike says, standing and gesturing for Dean to follow again. Dean barely manages to stop himself rolling his eyes – Pike is a good man, he supposes, if a little wishy washy and would forget his own head some days if it weren't screwed on. Pike leads him to a box of case files labeled 'Unsolved: 17-32', and opens it, flicking through the manila envelopes until he comes across an impressively thick one, pulls it out and opens it for Dean to see. Her hair is a different color and she is about five years younger, but that is definitely Charlotte Bradbury. "It appears our vic has surfaced before. She was charged for cyber terrorism, breaking and entering, assault charges against a one Dick Roman, and escaped from prison back in 2008."

Dean raises an eyebrow, taking the folder. A fiery girl indeed. He whistles low under his breath. "Sounds like the kind of girl who makes a lot of old friends."

"You think one of them got the drop on her?"

"Someone she didn't expect to ever see again," Dean replies, nodding his head. "Mind if I…?" He gestures with the folder, and Pike merely nods and makes a vague sound of assent.

"Yeah, go ahead. She's a cold case now, I guess, as far as that file's concerned."

Dean nods again, tucking the file underneath his arm. "Well, if that's all of it – pretty sure Henricksen's two wrong words away from havin' my head, so I think I'm gonna skip out. Call me if you catch anything else, yeah?" Pike nods and Dean makes his way out, rubbing at his temples. He's jonesing for another caffeine hit already, and despite the fact that he slept through his first four shots, four more is sounding more and more like a good idea with every passing second.

He stops at the cafeteria adjacent to the police station and buys a cup of their drip coffee, tossing it back like medicine as soon as it gets cool enough – which, luckily, doesn't take that long, since the cups are about as capable of insulation as a mesh shirt. After that he heads back home, because he has nothing pressing to take care of and, if worse should come to worst, he can try and catch a few more hours of sleep. There's something in the air, he thinks – something big is brewing, and like an owl he'll have to be up more night than day.

When he gets back home, he goes to the spare room next to his bedroom, flicking the light on and setting down the Bradbury file. Within this room are several TV sets, a photo frame with three hundred photos on constant shuffle, and a book of crossword puzzles about one thousand pages thick sitting, open, next to an unfolded futon bed. Dean is half-way through the puzzle book, and when he is done with it, it will join the three others stacked behind the photo frame. Dean sighs, sitting down on the futon, and turns on the televisions, one at a time until the room is full of news anchors, children's cartoons, a _Die Hard_ marathon, and a documentary on Pavarotti. He lays down on the futon, on his left side, so that he can see the sliding photos within the frame, and then he picks up the crossword book, and sets to work finishing number five-thirty-six.

Sometimes, Dean will catch himself quoting along with Bruce Willis' dialogue with Alan Rickman, and he presses his lips together, shaking his head until he stops. He's slipping – he knows it, because he gets three-down wrong and cannot finish the puzzle until he turns off everything but the news anchor and tunes out her drawl about fiscal drops and triple-dip recessions and so on.

Eventually, he does though, and with a self-satisfied smile, he turns the other channels back on and lets the stimulus soak into him until his headache finally goes away, and turns to puzzle number five-thirty-seven.

 

 

"Hello?"

"Lisa, baby, how've you been?"

"Dean." The name is sighed, a mix of irritation and amusement in Lisa Braeden's voice. Dean grins to himself, picking at a bit of dirt under his fingernails. He is still lying on the futon, feet kicked up against the wall so his heels are braced against it, staring up at the ceiling. Around him, the televisions drone on at a lower volume and he makes sure the picture frame is still in the corner of his eye so that his periphery can catch it. "Do what do I owe the…. What do you want?"

"S'been a while, hasn't it?" Dean asks, clucking his tongue against his teeth again as he stares up at the ceiling. When coffee and sensory training fail to stabilize him, he often turns to Lisa – that woman can make Dean's brain shut down in a way that, well, let's just say you'd need to be a lot less legal to get something else with that kind of effect.

"Forty-nine days, but who's counting?" she replies dryly, and Dean finds it utterly adorable and annoying as Hell that she actually does count. He purses his lips, making another low sound, and swings his legs down onto the ground, pushing himself upright.

"Let me take you out," he murmurs, grinning wide because he already knows she'll say 'Yes'. Dean has an eye for people like that, he supposes – comes with the territory. Lisa is a woman who is born of manipulation and self-appeasement. She lives in a world where if she keeps accepting Dean's offers of attention and love and wild one-nights, Dean will start to believe it, and leave less often, and for as long. It is, Dean knows, a complete manipulation on her part, but he's willing to play along because he is smarter than that. "That little Italian place you love – _Giovanni's,_ right? You can wear that purple dress – the one I first met you in. And we can go dancing…?" Dean lets himself trail off, tongue mapping the bite of his lower teeth, along his lips. She can never resist a dance.

There is a pause, but Dean knows he's won her because she is making him wait for it – she delights in making him chase her, and if she wants a chase, well, Dean will definitely give her one. "I'm free tomorrow night," she finally says, like she has spent a long time thinking about it and debating her free time, and Dean's fingers curl against the futon in victory.

"I'll see you at eight," he says quickly, because she would never allow him to pick her up at her house, and then hangs up before she can reply – it takes the wind out of her sails, stops her from being able to do it first, and it gets her fired up and wild and Dean can hardly fucking wait. He's going to be so fucking relaxed by the end of tomorrow night, wrung dry by Lisa's special brand of enthusiastic, take-no-prisoners sex.

But that still leaves tonight open, and Dean debates to himself making dinner for Sam or watching more TV. If he turns the televisions back on, he'll likely waste the whole night up here, and there is a whole city begging for his attention. So, in the end, he supposes it's a no-brainer, and he shoves himself off of the futon, turns off all of the machines and carefully closes the door behind him so that he doesn't wake Sam. That done, he treks downstairs and starts a pot of water going to boil – something simple, he thinks, that'll keep for a while if there's leftovers. He'll be having Italian tomorrow night, which likely means noodles, so rice it is.

Rice and…oh, sliced and grilled chicken breast. And some diced tomatoes. Dean smiles to himself, taking out the chicken from the fridge and the can of tomatoes from the pantry, and starts slicing the meat. When the water is boiling he throws some rice in there, stirring it in with a wooden spoon and then leaves it.

Sam comes downstairs as Dean is grilling the chicken, the rice nicely simmering and the tomatoes just waiting to be added, and he smiles despite himself. "You going out tonight?" he asks, because he recognizes Dean's signs – though he suspects Dean himself doesn't realize it. He always overcompensates when he won't be home with Sam.

"Was thinking about it," Dean replies, shoulders drawing in a little despite himself, as though expecting some kind of blow or reprimand for saying it. Sam swallows, and frowns, and instead of saying anything he grabs Dean a beer and sets it down, opened, next to him. Dean gives a small nod of thanks and takes a swig. "You going for another all-nighter?"

"Um, later in the evening, yeah."

Sam sounds nervous, and Dean grins despite himself. "Say 'Hi' to Jess for me."

"Is there anything you don't know?" Sam asks, laughter in his voice, and Dean swallows and goes back to stirring the rice, because yeah, there are things – things like he's slipping, and there are women dying, and he couldn't figure out three down in the stupid crossword and even now he can't remember which cartoon was on except it had a cat and a mouse and that doesn't really narrow it down anymore, does it, and -. "Dean."

A hand settles itself, warm and large, between his shoulder blades, and Dean sighs, making a conscious effort to relax his muscles to give the illusion of calm. "I'm okay," he replies, rolling his shoulders to dislodge Sam's hand, and after a moment it finally goes, leaving a brace of chilly air behind. "You've been dating Jess a while, Sammy, haven't ya?" he asks instead of anything else, turning down the heat on the rice and pouring it into a colander to drain.

There is a brief pause. "Seventeen months or so, why?"

"Why haven't you married her yet?"

This time, there is a much longer pause – so long, in fact, that Dean is able to stir in the tomatoes and spoon a hearty helping into a bowl for Sam and lay some of the chicken on top, and then some for himself, and pack away the rest into Tupperware before Sam replies: "Because…well, she's in training still – to be a nurse, I mean – and, well."

"Well?" Dean presses, turning around and regarding Sam with a level gaze. Sam looks guilty, shoulders hunched up and staring down at his food. He's picking at it and Dean always knows when that's a bad sign. "Are you just screwin' around, Sammy? 'Cause your average for that is about six weeks. Unless she's got her hooks farther into you than I'd thought – I mean, you've never let me meet the girl, but -."

"I want to marry her, Dean," Sam finally says, looking up through his stupidly-long hair. Dean hates it. It makes reading Sam's eyes that much harder, but Dean thinks that might just be the point. Some people talk with their hands: Sam talks with his eyes. "But I'm afraid for you to meet her. And I can't marry her if she can't meet my only family."

Dean nods, eyes flicking away from Sam, and he draws his lower lip into his mouth before releasing it with a loud sucking sound. "Right," he finally says, setting his bowl down and leaning back against the kitchen counter. "And she can't meet me 'cause…?"

"Because you'll see right through her, Dean – you always do. You pick at people, and rip them apart and you do it all so _cleanly_. People don't _like_ that, Dean," Sam replies, sounding like he's in pain, and Dean nods again, shoulders rolling as he folds his arms across his chest. He knows he's giving himself away with his defensive posture, but Sam looks for the eyes too and so Dean does his best to keep them averted so that Sam can't see, can't read him like Dean does. "I want you to meet her, Dean," Sam says, "but I'm afraid of it."

"You think I can't control myself?" Dean asks, brows drawing together as a frown when he finally meets Sam's eyes. His anger hides him, he thinks, defends and misleads so Sam won't see, and he gestures towards his own head. "That I got no filter on this thing?"

"You _don't_ have a filter," Sam replies. "I know how much you see – you see _everything_ , and yeah, you might hide it well enough, but I'd still _know_ you were thinking stuff about her, stuff I would never know unless I asked, and I don't like the idea of you knowing her better than I do, or figuring out if she has anything to hide. Because I don't care, but you'll make me care, and I don't want that."

"Fine, then," Dean bites out, raising his hands in a gesture of defeat and acceptance. "I won't meet her – maybe you two can fucking elope or something if it'll put your conscience at rest. Have a good night, Sam."

"Dean! Come on, Dean!" And yeah, maybe he is getting a little overemotional about the whole thing, but fuck it – this isn't the first time his little 'trick' has gotten him under strain from his family. Besides, everyone deserves some secrets.

He takes his dinner up to his extra room and sits on the futon and looks over the Bradbury case file until he hears Sam shut the front door behind him and sees from his angle at the top of the stairs that the lower level light has been turned off. So he's alone in the house. Good.

The case file is boring to him – nothing in it gives him any clues as to who might be after her. She pissed off a lot of people, it seems, and unfortunately 'a lot' doesn't give him much to work with. He can't profile 'a lot'. So he finishes his food instead and goes back downstairs, glad to see that at least Sam had the good decency to wash his bowl and fork before leaving, and he does the same before going to the front hallway. Keys, wallet, phone, shoes, jacket – all present and accounted for. "Great," he mutters to himself, and heads out, careful to lock the door and spray a new line of paint down on the ground with the canister he keeps in a small missing-brick sized hole at the bottom of the stairs.


	2. Two

The bar is crowded and noisy, and Dean likes that. It smells of cigars and whiskey and oil wood with new polish, and he likes that too – the faintly chemical smell of a business well-used and well-worn. He sits down at one end of the bar and orders a beer, his gaze traveling up and down the bar in a way that is not too intent to cause trouble, but not too vacant to be ready should trouble find him.

The door opens again as Dean is taking a third swig, bringing with it a brief gasp of fresh air, and Dean turns to see the newcomer. It is then that his eyes stop their wandering.

He is not an impressive man, but from the way his eyes move and the way his chin is just slightly tilted up, he doesn't need to be. There is an air of defiance and cockiness around him, almost daring, taunting someone to take whatever bait he's dangling in front of them. His eyes are bright, brighter than the relaxing paint on Charlotte Bradbury's walls, and colder, crisper like hoarfrost in the early mornings. He looks like someone has taken a round with him already, lips swollen-looking and chapped and hair tousled in such a delicious way it's either totally artificial or it happened entirely by accident.

His body language suggests self-assuredness: a goal. He walks into the bar like he owns everyone in it, and Dean – well, he's never one to back down from a challenge. And that is what his job is – looking at someone's handiwork, and thinking _'I am better, I am smarter, I will catch you'_.

Dean watches him, until it becomes obvious that he is watching, then he watches some more – just to see how long it takes blue-eyes to notice the gaze. Not long, as it turns out, as the man turns his head just enough to catch Dean's gaze, and something flares in those cold eyes – fire within the frost, Dean thinks, and he's out of his seat before he can think about it.

Blue-eyes grins, baring just too many teeth for it to be quite considered friendly, and stops Dean with a hand to his chest. "Easy, tiger," he murmurs, voice rough with salt and grit and iron and Dean _wants_. "Aren't you gonna buy me a drink first?"

And Dean smiles at him, because sure, sure he can. "What's your poison?" he asks, taking a seat back down and blue-eyes joins him on an adjacent stool.

"Whatever's on tap," blue-eyes replies to the bartender when he arrives, and Dean slips the bartender a twenty so that they'll keep coming, before the full focus of that shielded-fire gaze lands on him again. "Castiel," the man says, holding out his hand, and Dean finds it weird that he'd be a hand shaker, but takes it anyway. "Novak."

"Dean Winchester," Dean replies with an easy smile, ignoring the way the man's hand tightens slightly on his. It's a dominance thing, he's sure of it – the way the man's eyes don't leave his and he's searching Dean's face like he'll discover the meaning of life in his freckles or something. Dean finally lets go, accepting his overly-firm handshake, and drags his palm along his thigh. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"I move a lot," Castiel replies, still eyeing Dean as he takes a sip of whatever-the-Hell the bartender had brought him. He seems perfectly satisfied with the results, though, so Dean counts that as a win. "Just got here, in fact." A pause, then, as Castiel – and that is a weird name, sounds like an Angel or something religious – stares at Dean again, like he's trying to peel back the man's skin. "You local?"

And God, it is refreshing to have someone who has no idea who he is, and what he can see. "Yup, live just around the corner, in fact."

It's a line – Dean knows it, Castiel knows it, the whole damn bar probably knows it, and Castiel's eyes are gleaming and sharp like the point of a blade. "Well, then," he says, tipping back his drink and taking it all down in three long swallows. "I suppose you upheld your end." And then, he stands, pulling his trench coat around himself, and holds out a hand to Dean. Dean doesn't take it – because that's something you do for pretty girls, and not men you pick up to brutally fuck – but he stands anyway and follows Castiel out of the bar.

The man is on him before he can even point which direction to go – his hands are harsh, pressing against Dean's collarbones and not his shoulders and pushing him back against an alley wall, and there is a mouth on his, stealing his breath, and the warmth and solidness of a leg worming its way between his own. Fuck, yeah, Dean can get behind this, and his body seems to be two steps ahead of him, one hand threading through the fine hairs at the back of Castiel's head, the other fisted tightly in his coat to pull him closer, and Castiel crowds around him like he's so much bigger than Dean is, but he's not, and it's a really weird feeling to be dwarfed by someone smaller than him but Dean is so on board for it, and more.

Dean could have guessed Castiel's style when he looked the man over, but even if he had paid that much attention, he would have likely been wrong. Castiel _steals_ – he takes and he cheats and he steals, and Dean has always had selfish lovers – chosen them as a matter of course, in fact – but this is something different. This is selfish in a different way, selfish because instead of _take, take, take,_ Castiel is whispering, between the gasp of their breaths and the way his tongue licks into Dean's mouth and his fingers curl so tightly around Dean's shoulders; _let me, give to me, and I'll give you back so much more._

Castiel's fingers curl under Dean's jaw, tilting his head up as the other man withdraws, and Castiel is breathing harshly, heavily, warmth across Dean's neck when Castiel drags his nose across Dean's throat and upwards to kiss him again. Dean feels like he's being consumed with the glacial fire of Castiel, and he likes it.

Eager to get this show on the road, Dean bites back at Castiel's mouth, hands dragging down to grab Castiel's thighs and grind their hips together, and he is rewarded with another low, animal sound from the man – like a hunter nearing its kill, Castiel sounds like a wolf at his throat. Dean lets out another low, desperate sound, knotting his fingers tight in Castiel's hair to haul his head up for another kiss – demanding, bruising those swollen lips more until they're red and wet under Dean's tongue, he can't wait to spread this gorgeous man out and fuck him absolutely raw.

"Come on," he grits out, already hard and shamelessly arching his body into the press of Castiel's hands, and the man's eyes flash up to his, blackened in his face. "My place. Let's go."

Castiel's mouth spreads out in a slow smirk, and his lips are already so reddened and ripe and Dean wants to lick back into his mouth and never come out again, but he can think of other parts of him he'd like Castiel's mouth to go on. He pushes away from the wall and Castiel lets him, following where Dean leads, around the corner and down the street to Dean's house. If he notices or cares about the bright paint and the sparsely-furnished front room and the nonsensical size-to-populace ratio, he doesn't comment on it, but follows Dean up to his bedroom and then, as soon as the door is closed, uses the opportunity to push Dean against his closed door again, kissing him like they never stopped and his hands are greedy and clawing now, doing his best to separate Dean from his clothes as quickly and efficiently as possible.

Dean is usually so good at reading people – he can tell, with a look and a few well-placed words, just what someone wants from him and how he can give it to them. How he can satisfy them in a way even they're not quite aware they need. Like this, though, pressed so close to Castiel's body, he's not quite sure what the other man wants of him. Castiel kisses like he aims to consume, to possess Dean utterly and Dean cannot give him that.

He pushes at Castiel's shoulders and prowls to the bed, forcing the smaller man to lie back and underneath him. The power feels like a heady drug on the inside of Dean's mouth, behind his eyes, and he leans down, braced on one arm and with his knees on either side of Castiel's hips, feels the man's tanned-darker-than-Dean's hands reach up and form tight vices around the bottom of his ribcage, caging him in and trapping him close as they kiss again, and Dean is breathing deep the scent of musk and travel and fire coming from Castiel's clothes, and he wants to consume in return.

Dean's free hand curls around Castiel's neck, and he can feel the pulse thrumming beneath Castiel's skin. He shifts his weight, pulling his knees up to rest on either side of Castiel's torso, freeing his other arm now to drag down Castiel's chest to cup the erection he can feel pressing into the back of his thigh.

Castiel bucks into the touch, snarling against Dean's mouth. And then Dean isn't quite sure what happens, but Castiel is suddenly over him, leg tucked in tight under one of Dean's thighs to brace himself, other knee against the bed and between Dean's legs, and there is a forearm across Dean's throat – hard enough to warn, not enough to suffocate – and there is no fire left to Castiel, but he has frozen over colder than the ninth circle of Hell, and Dean fights the urge to shiver.

He swallows, and stares up at Castiel as Castiel stares down at him, eyebrow cocked and head tilted, smirk just barely hiding the snarl in his throat. "That's not how I play it, Winchester," he says after a moment, eyes taking on that quality they had in the bar before, like they are searching for the answer to life's meaning in Dean's face.

It takes Dean a moment to understand, and then a mix of sheepishness and defiance washes over him. "It's the only way I do," he replies, quirking one side of his mouth up in response, just to see Castiel's eyes flash with indignation – _of course_ , he thinks. Of course Mister Recessive Genes and Small Stature and Too Firm Handshake wouldn't take it. "You always the pitcher?"

" _Always_ ," Castiel hisses, pressing more firmly down against Dean's throat. He's choosing to press just above Dean's Adam's apple and not below – a warning, not a legitimate threat. It's easier to read Castiel when they're farther apart. Castiel cocks his head to one side again, eyes appraising and amused and freezing cold. Then, he pulls away. "I should go."

"Well, hey," Dean protests, reaching for him without quite knowing why, especially when Castiel's eyes return to him and Dean can feel the weight of them on his shoulders. "There's a way for us both to have a good time, here."

Castiel smiles. "I think I misread you," is all he says in reply, straightening his suit jacket and trench coat on his shoulders, shaking out his arms until the clothes lay flat. "It was an honest mistake. I'm sorry to have wasted your time."

 _But I never misread,_ Dean thinks as he escorts Castiel to the door, unsatisfied and freezing cold without Castiel's warmth on him. _I'm slipping up._

"Thanks for the drink, Dean," Castiel says with a carefree grin in Dean's direction as he walks back down the stairs and disappears around the corner, and Dean finally slumps against the door like all the strings have been cut from above him. He wipes a hand over his face and slams the door shut behind him and trudges back upstairs. A cold shower (or a hot, long one) will take care of his problem, but Dean has bigger things to worry about than that.

He _never_ misreads people. Sure, sometimes he doesn't get the whole message, but there had been something completely _off_ about that. Dean can count on one hand the amount of times he's been rejected _during_ foreplay (once it gets that far, he's golden) and then Castiel came along and he just -.

He sighs, scrubbing his hands through his hair and kicks off the boots that never quite made it off, and shrugs off his button-down and t-shirt so he's left in a wife beater and jeans. Fuck, he needs to sleep, like half an hour ago. He turns off the lights in his rooms (he's mapped his entire complex by heart so sight's not a problem he has to deal with) and shrugs off the jeans so he's down to the wife beater and boxers, and he slips into his bed, wrapping the covers around himself. He's freezing cold now despite himself, and his body has seemingly given up all desire to get itself pleasure or stay awake for even a second longer, and so he doesn't bother.

Hell, at least with Lisa tomorrow he'll know exactly what to expect.

 

 

"Dean? Dean! Open the fucking door!"

Dean snaps awake at another loud pounding against his complex's door. Sam's voice has this way of penetrating walls, Dean is sure of it, and that thought is lost again in another round of incessant beatings. "Hey!" he growls, pushing himself upwards and running a hand over his face to scrub away the sleep from his eyes, and he falls against the complex door.

Opening it, he is met with the sight of a distressed-looking Sam, wild-eyed and breathless as though he had run all across the city. "Where's the fire?" Dean demands when Sam does nothing but stare at him, last night's embarrassment and lack of sleep far from putting him in a decent mood. He walks away from the door without waiting for an answer, pulling on yesterday's jeans and switching out the wife beater for a t-shirt, which he shrugs on and pushes back past Sam to go downstairs.

"The paint was… I didn't know what to make of it," comes Sam's sheepish reply, and Dean pauses in thought for a second, before he realizes – Castiel must have messed up the design, and with Dean asleep and supposedly out, Sam had no way of knowing what had happened. "Sorry. Guess I overreacted."

"I'd rather you did that then I be dead and you not look for me, I guess," Dean replies after another second, grabbing the leftover chicken and rice from last night along with a Starbucks frappe drink, tossing the second back while the first microwaves. "How was your night?"

"It was alright."

The way Sam pauses before he replies piques Dean's interest and he contemplates paying more attention to it because if there is anything he knows he can do, it's reading Sam. And after his string of failures with the murders and his blunder with Castiel, Dean will take a few easy wins.

But everyone deserves their secrets, so Dean will let Sam keep his. "That's good," he murmurs, taking the food out of the microwave when it beeps and stirring the steaming rice gently with a fork. "Are you off tonight or working some more?"

"Working," Sam replies, taking a seat at their mini island in the middle of the kitchen and flicking through the mail that had been left yesterday and this morning by the mailman. "Why?"

"I'm going out with Lisa tonight," Dean replies, earning a surprised flash of Sam's gaze from underneath his hair, but it is gone just as quickly. Dean doesn't need to read Sam to know what he's thinking then – Lisa is Dean's go-to stress release, and Sam buys into her manipulation as easy as a moth is drawn to a flame. She would have ensnared a softer man already. "Didn't want you thinking to wait up for me or worrying if I didn't come home tonight."

"Thanks for the heads up." Dean nods, and sits down near Sam to eat, close enough that he can stretch a leg out and rest his shin against the muscle of Sam's calf, just close enough to feel his little brother's body heat. They've done it ever since they were kids.

 

 

"I have been here before," Dean murmurs, walking down Charlotte Bradbury's front hallway. A kitchen extends to one side, cheery and white and green, and he brushes his fingers along the wall that has been marked with red. "I wanted to make sure that she would see my sign – my mark."

By his feet, he feels like a large black cat is prowling, its sleek fur rubbing along the outside of his leg. Its tail curls around his ankles, trying to trip him up, and he turns into the living room again. It has been cleaned, but Dean can remember the scene as clearly as though he is still looking at it, and when he blinks she is there, standing at the open window with a small, worried frown between her eyebrows at the corner of her lower lip sucked between her teeth. "She looks different that I remember her being, but it is definitely her."

He opens his eyes, drawing in a breath. "Charlie…"

"Charlie?" Pike says behind him, a frowning ghost in the back of Dean's mind, and Dean nods.

"I knew her," he whispers, still talking as though he were the murderer. "She preferred being called Charlie – she didn't like the name 'Charlotte'. It seemed too," He waved a vague hand in a gesture that did not suit him, "stiff."

"So our perp knew the victim well?"

"Undoubtedly," Dean replies, stepping into Charlie's oddly-perfect room, with its rumpled sheets and clothes trailing along the floor and rabbit hutch still untouched except for the smear of blood. "She knew I had been here but she thought she was safe – that I was just sending a message. That I would never hurt her."

He turns, frowning, and looking back towards the living room where he can see Charlie's lifeless, surprised eyes staring back at him. "I would never hurt her," he repeats, softer this time. "I knew her and I loved her. But something changed. Something went wrong."

He can see it now – the black cat prowling along the floor, rolling itself in her sheets until the bed is thick with shed black hair, the cat marking its territory within Charlie's home and heart. Then she's screaming, demanding to be left, demanding to be alone, and the cat attacks her with a yowl of vengeance and claws aimed for her throat.

"She left me," he whispers, frowning again and staring at the spot where Charlie's head had been laid, looking towards the door to her bedroom, surprise and fear and understanding mirrored back to him. "She rejected me. So I killed her."

There is a moment of silence, and when nothing else comes, Pike clears his throat, stepping forward and jotting down Dean's observations on his little yellow notepad. "So, what are you thinking? Ms. Bradbury made some slightly over-eager friends back in her hacking days? Or someone here in the city?"

Dean swallows, eyes snapping up to the investigator's face. "I don't know," he replies, frustrated and short. In his mind's eye, he flicks through her case file, remembers noting with something like surprise that the ginger color had actually been her original one – she had gone brunette and dyed her eyebrows too, and had chosen to let people believe that the ginger was fake by missing some of her roots and allowing the fake color to stay. A double bluff – but why go through that much trouble? "How long has she lived here?"

"She signed a two-year lease back in February." So not that long.

She must have been followed here, then. Someone had been hunting her down. "See if there are any records of Charlotte Bradbury or any of her aliases owning property before. I think she's been on the run for a very long time, and she pulled the short straw on this round."

Something is different – somehow the killer had managed to catch her here, and not any of the other places before. How? What was different now?

"I'll see what I can find. It might take a while."

Dean smiles thinly. "We've got time, I guess," he replies, and pushes past Pike to leave. Whoever killed Charlotte Bradbury, Sarah Blake and Amelia Milton – their bloodlust has been assuaged for now. Dean figures he has three, maybe four days before they move on and blend back into the miasma of the United States.

It's not long, but it's long enough.

 

 

Dean knows that Lisa will make him wait, because for someone so easy to get she does like to put up one Hell of a fight. But Dean doesn't mind – it means he gets his time to take out all of his people watching on others than on her (which helps to curb his tongue as well) and it means that by the time she shows up Dean can be well into his second beer and a lot more cheerful than he feels at the moment.

At eight fifteen, she still hasn't shown up, but Dean doesn't let himself worry – she will show, wearing the golden dress specifically because Dean suggested she wear the purple one. Again, a small manipulation on Dean's part because she looks absolutely gorgeous in the purple one, but the golden one has his fingers clawing at his own thighs to keep his hands off her, and she knows it too, and so it boosts both of them a little in the long run.

His eyes are scanning the restaurant around him, when they stop, and stare again. It's him – Castiel. Dean immediately feels his shoulders go stiff, fingers curling a little tightly around his glass as he takes a long swallow of it and tries to get a read on the man. A good one, this time – not half-assed and dulled by alcohol and lust.

Good God, though, does the man live up to Dean's memory. As good as Dean's memory is, that's not a surprise, but desire can soften the senses and make them more flattering, but there is no deniable favor for Dean here. Castiel is taunting him again, taunting the whole room in fact. His trench coat and suit jacket lay draped across the back of his chair, so he is merely wearing slacks and shiny work shoes and a white shirt with the same dark blue tie resting perfectly over the row of buttons. Dean wants to wrap it around his fist just to see it rumple. He wants to lick at the stain of red wine on the inside of Castiel's lips.

He is sitting at a table for two, alone, just like Dean is. The other place is set out – he is expecting company too, perhaps – but not yet used. Condensing icy water sits in the other untouched glass – there isn't even a mark of lips around the rim, nor of fingers on the stem.

Before Dean can think better of it (and even if he did, he still probably would) he is up from his own seat and situating himself in the other chair across from Castiel. To the other man's credit, he doesn't so much as glance up from the menu he is perusing, and gives Dean enough time to comfortably settle himself before he raises his eyes and sets the menu down with a small sigh.

"Are you much of a wine drinker, Mister Winchester?" Castiel asks before Dean can say anything, swirling around the red in his glass and taking a sip with an appreciative, almost contemplative look on his face, like he is trying to think of what the taste reminds him of.

"Not much for reds," Dean replies, honestly – it is the color of blood, or a crime scene. "I would have pegged you for a place to relax after work, not a fancy joint like this."

"Likewise," Castiel says smoothly, raising an eyebrow in Dean's direction and smirking. "I've been doing a little light reading on you – and to think I shared saliva with a celebrity!" His laugh sounds cut-off, muted and low like listening from behind a door.

"I'm not that famous," Dean mutters, flushing despite himself at the sound of Castiel's laugh.

"But you are very good at what you do." Dean has no answer for that, and so Castiel simply hums and takes another sip and regards Dean coolly from behind his wine glass. "Are you going to deduce me into spreading my legs, Mister Winchester?"

And Dean cannot help it – he laughs at that, because it sounds like another challenge, and it sure as Hell has an awesome prize. "I'll tell you what," he says, holding up a hand to stay any reply. "I'll make a bet with you. I will tell you three things about yourself, and if you can't figure out how I got there, you let me take you out on another date."

"Did we have a first date?" Castiel asks with a tilt of his head and an amused smile, but his eyes are gleaming and sharp again and Dean knows he's got him – this man likes games, Dean thinks, and likes to be in control.

"Like you said: we've swapped saliva. That's as good as in my books."

Castiel hums again, but tilts his glass in Dean's direction with a nod of his head. "Very well, then," he says, as though he is musing over his answer, eyes raking over Dean in a way that feels predatory and eager and it makes Dean shiver, shoulders tightening. "But if I can guess or figure out one of them, or if you claim a single incorrect thing, then _I_ get to take _you_ out."

Dean blinks, surprised at that. It's a dominance thing, again, he realizes – Castiel is giving him the opportunity to earn the power in the relationship, and if he fails then he will never be able to claim it back.

What a fantastic puzzle Castiel is turning out to be.

He grins. "Deal."

Dean doesn't know what people expect to see when he walks into a room – he's heard downright ridiculous tales of him staring into the eyes of the dead man or woman and hearing their final moments, seeing it in the remnants of their souls or whatever – like he's some damn medium with smoke and fire and sparks flying. Really, all it takes from Dean is a good look, and a deep breath, and a little bit of imagination.

He cocks his head to one side, and looks at Castiel. The man, for his part, merely stares back. He does not look uncomfortable, or nervous under Dean's scrutiny, and Dean feels like he is trying to cow the tide into receding instead of coming in and washing over him. Like fighting the growth of the moon in the darkness. Unstoppable and cold.

Then, he smiles. "There are some great apartment listings in your price range on the other side of town, you know – you'd get a better night's sleep there than you do at fourth."

Castiel blinks, raising an eyebrow, before he smiles and concedes the truth of the statement with a small nod of his head. "Well done," he says, sounding amused and impressed. "Go on – do I have a specific kind of dust on my shoes? Did you see me there during the day and assume I lived there?"

Dean shakes his head. "You're tired all the time, only getting maybe four or five hours of sleep a night if your night-owl behavior last night is any indication. A perfectly fine amount of time for most people given a good amount of caffeine, but your sleep patterns are being interrupted – often and regularly enough to make you toss and turn as much as you do in your bed to get your hair looking like that. And I can imagine the jetlag isn't helping." He sits back in his chair, triumphant. "That means you live near the airport or the train station, and I guessed train because it is more convenient for a businessman who lives on the outskirts of town to get into the business sector by the Subway and without airport traffic."

"Well done, Mister Winchester," Castiel says after a moment, chuckling to himself and shaking his head, and Dean merely smiles at him. "Clearly the rumors are not entirely unjustified. Any second observations?"

He's piqued Castiel's interest, Dean can tell – his words are eager and rushed, and he wants Dean to tell him more. He wants to peel Dean back and figure out how his brain works. And Dean wants to let him – wants to tell Castiel anything and everything he sees, whisper the words against Castiel's mouth like the man will show Dean's notes on his skin, black inked into him. He wants to mark Castiel with the burden of how much he sees, and knows, because Castiel is daring him to do it.

"You moved here from Illinois," Dean murmurs, cocking his head to one side again and giving Castiel a steady once-over. "I'm guessing for a job."

Castiel purses his lips, nodding again. "Of sorts," he replies slowly. "And how did you guess that?"

Dean's eyes flash to Castiel's trench coat. "The business card sticking out of your inner pocket," he says, making Castiel straighten and look. "Granted, I can only see the corner of it, but it's a distinctive logo – only three companies have that combination of yellow, brown and green, and two of them are based from Japan. The third," he tilts his head towards Castiel, smiling wider, "Illinois. And that one shut down last month, I think."

"You _are_ a very clever man," the older man replies, almost wondering. "I'm beginning to think we may need that second date after all." Dean chuckles to himself, shaking his head and folding his hands across his stomach and leaning back, because now he has to come up with a third, and Castiel is becoming harder and harder to read somehow – sure, he can tell Castiel simple things, like the fact that he doesn't wear cologne or his preference in types of toothpaste, but those things are easy to solve and Dean wants this second date. He needs to win this.

But his head snaps up at the scent of familiar perfume, and he curses under his breath when he sees Lisa coming through the front door. Fine, then – a quick one: "Whatever happened to that girl you dated in high school, huh?" he asks, getting to his feet and waving to Lisa to catch her attention, before motioning to their empty table. Her eyes darken in indignation but she goes without a second look. "Naomi, right? Whatever happened to her?"

He looks back at Castiel when there is no answer immediately coming from the man, but Castiel is not looking at him – no, instead those steely blue-grey eyes are focused on Lisa, unreadable and intense as always, and Dean feels the weird need to put himself between Castiel's gaze and her, to draw his attention away. "Come on, Cas," he says, grinning like a cat post-canary. "No answer?"

Castiel's eyes flash up, dark and flat. "Easy," he replies, tone too light and belying the abyssal black in his gaze. "You Googled that – my high school yearbook." And Dean pauses, drawn up short at that – because, fuck, yeah, he had. Had learned Castiel's high school name, seen pictures in his Year Book, and even knew that he was the star athlete for track and had played Tybalt in his school's performance of _Romeo and Juliet_. "Enjoy your dinner, Dean," Castiel says, knowing he's won, the darkness retreating at the glow of pleasure and triumph in his eyes, and Dean curses his own hasty decision. He should have gone for something harder. "And I will visit you soon for our second date."

"Gonna throw rocks at my window like a lovesick schoolboy?" Dean asks, sarcastic and taunting because he can be and he doesn't like being won-over by some Average Joe Complex over here.

Castiel doesn’t answer except to take another sip of his wine with a low snort of amusement, and so Dean curses, and turns his back and heads back towards the table, where Lisa is perusing the wine menu and trying very hard to look like she is ignoring Dean and giving him the cold shoulder. It is almost impossibly easy to melt her, though, when Dean takes her hand and gives her his most charming smile, and kisses her just a little longer than necessary in the hopes that Castiel will look and she will flush and Dean will have her raring to go already.

Her dark eyes reflect surprise at him, lust coloring her cheeks red already, and Dean smiles again. "You look gorgeous as always," he says, and he means it, because Lisa is a fucking bombshell even on an off-night, and the gold compliments her skin so beautifully.

"You're looking pretty good yourself," she replies with a smile.

Later that night when Lisa goes to the bathroom, Dean casts his eyes over to Castiel's table again. The other man is laughing and raising his glass in a toast, and the other seat is occupied – he cannot see the woman's face, but it is a woman, with long dark hair and pale skin and long fingers curling around her glass. She is leaning forward and Castiel is leaning back, relaxed and at ease but not close to her at all. He submits to her, somehow, in a way that he will not to Dean, and Dean tries to swallow back the unease and the jealousy that that observation causes.

Sometimes he does see too much.

He takes Lisa dancing, because he promised that he would, and she presses her body up against his in all the right ways and willingly leads him into a spiral of alcohol and sweat and sex. He buries his jealousy between her thighs and licks and kisses and fucks her until she's screaming out his name, until her thighs quiver and shake and her hair is matted with sweat and she cannot quite take in a full breath. It helps ease him a little, as he knew it would, but even so he cannot help but dream of that dark wildcat hunting down a young wolf and eating it alive.

 

 

Morning finds Dean sated, sore and starving. He moans softly, wincing at the bright flare of sunlight coming in through Lisa's window, and rolls back over to bury his head against his pillow. There is the warmth of another body behind him, and he accepts the touch of Lisa's hand slowly splaying out across his chest, tugging him back to her. Eyes half-lidded so that he doesn't hurt them again, he rolls back over and allows her to think she is pulling him back in, slick slide of his lips against her neck enough to appease her for now and raise goose bumps on her arm.

"Roll over," he growls, just to see her shiver, and she does, arching and stretching long on her stomach as he spreads her legs and covers her body and sinks right into her. "Fuck." Lisa bends and bows to him in a way that's rare nowadays, he thinks, and it feels so good to dwarf her smaller, limber body underneath his and know that he can hold her down with one hand if he wants to – not that she would fight him back too hard unless it started getting rough.

In, out, easy as anything. Dean finds Lisa easy – uncomplicated, unobtrusive. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to her shoulder because she likes being kissed there, and wraps his arms around her so that he can cup one of her breasts with one hand and rub at her clit with the other, fingers rough-edged and teasing. Her body is easy to him, mapped and remapped so many times that he could know her in the dark, and he can time her perfectly so that she shakes and shudders around him just before he spills into her, soaking into her lust-greedy body. She doesn't take the pill until the mid-morning, and she is almost obsessive about it because Dean is far from her only lover and, well, she isn't like that.

Dean makes her breakfast and leaves it in the kitchen for her to find, and takes his leave of her soon after. He doesn't eat her food or make himself something, because that crosses an unspoken line – as though accepting the food is accepting one more layer of the trap that she wants to wrap him into and he cannot allow something like that. So he cooks for her, and fucks her so hard she screams, but then he leaves with nothing but a smell on the sheets and soreness between her legs to remind her that he was there.

It is better this way.

Dean comes home and finds the paint distorted – too straight and uniform like someone had tried to paint over it perfectly to mask their passing. Sam doesn't paint like that, and Dean sure as Hell doesn't either. Frowning, Dean jumps up the two steps leading to his front door and pushes through the front door after unlocking it.

Sam hasn't come home yet, and there is a letter in the front that bears Dean's name, handwritten, on it, fallen from being pushed through the letterbox. A crisp white envelope slightly smudged with someone's touch. Curious, Dean bends down and closes the door and picks it up and opens it, trudging into the kitchen for examination.

_Dean,_

_I will give you until eight tonight.  
Don’t disappoint me._

_With Regards,  
Castiel._

The lettering is written in a stilted script, like someone who is prone to long, flowing lines and grand designs has been stifled to the small, short words of someone who has their hand forced by someone else, or something else that is holding them back – a passion and fervor stymied by cold planning and sharp lines. Castiel is a passionate man, stilted by either his attempts at coolness or his grand plan for Dean's hunt to go awry.

He recognizes the message for what it is – he has until eight this evening to find Castiel. It reads like a ransom note.

Dean smiles, folding the paper again and sticking it into his jacket pocket. So Castiel wants a hunt – to exert his power over Dean by leading him through something that only Castiel has the power to lead. Oh, this is excellent. So brilliantly grand and beautiful that Dean itches to leave and begin as soon as possible.

He does not stifle that itch, or try and fight it, but he is repainting his floor in a curving line so that Sam is not worried, and back into the city before he can stop himself.

It is a Saturday today, and Dean cannot assume that Castiel would go out of his way to make himself difficult to find, but with it being a Saturday that does not mean that he follows any set restrictions or patterns of movement that would match any other Saturday in his life. He is new to this town, a tourist, and has just started up a new job. His lack of sleep may be blamed on his jetlag, or a desire for late nights to avoid mixing with his new colleagues.

But he will not try and change his pattern – he wants Dean to find him, wants Dean to use his power of observations and whatever else to track Castiel down. He wants a hunt, not a chase.

Dean grins wide, almost a skip to his step as he walks down the street. It shouldn't be too hard, after all – he has several hours before the deadline and he can take his time. Dean is in no hurry whatsoever – hunger forgotten and spirits high, he starts his hunt.

 


	3. Three

The morning air is crisp and warm where there is sun, cool where the high buildings block it out and create shade. There is a light breeze carried from the south that soothes the heat of the sun away and lures locals out into the parks, their shoulders bared and reddening from the deceptive rays. Castiel has taken advantage of this freedom, in blue jeans and a t-shirt with an open button-down over that – cool enough if he remains in the shade. Dean will understand the hidden message in that, he thinks, and smiles at the thought of it.

He is walking back towards his home, prepared to remain unfound and disappointed when eight o'clock rolls around, but then suddenly a hand has grabbed onto his, and he is being spun and pulled back to collide with the hard, broad chest of Dean Winchester.

Castiel finds that he is smiling despite himself, eyes flashing with mirth as he leans in and buries his laugh into Dean's neck. "You're early," he remarks, fingers already curling around the halves of the man's clothes.

"You were easy to find," Dean replies, his tone cocky, and without hesitation his hand is settling on the back of Castiel's neck, light and easy and gentle, and his other hand is tilting the shorter man's head up so that they can meet each other's eyes. "This for me?"

Castiel smiles, again, without quite knowing why – there is something easy about Dean, he thinks, that makes people smile. He thinks even in the pit of his most awful despair, Dean would find a way to make him laugh. "And this, too." And then he is leaning up and kissing Dean, pulling the taller man's head down to make Dean's shoulders hunch and make it easier for him. It's another power thing, Dean realizes too late when Castiel's tongue has licked into his mouth and his lower lip is tingling from a harsh bite. The clothes, the public affection – it's a test for Dean, another one.

When they pull apart, Dean is pleased to note that he isn't the only one left breathing hard and bright-eyed from the kiss. Around them he is aware of a few dirty and curious looks, because even though this is the twenty-first century there are some things you just don't _do_ in this town, but Castiel is looking at him like he's trying to figure Dean out and his palm is so warm against Dean's chest that Dean never wants him to pull away.

Instead, Castiel's brows pull together and he frowns. "You haven't eaten yet," he says, cocking his head to one side, and Dean blinks and nods and tries to figure out why he feels kind of ashamed at the disappointment written into the set of Castiel's jaw. "Then that is what we shall do first."

He tilts Dean's head up, then, like he is inspecting some kind of animal, his eyes searching Dean's face for a long moment, before he lets go and steps back and carries on his merry way as though Dean had never interrupted. "Eight?" Dean calls to him, but doesn’t move to join.

Castiel turns around, continuing to walk backwards now, and he grins and waves. "There's a French deli just down the street from my apartment. I will meet you there," he says, and then he turns the corner and is out of Dean's sight.

Well, Dean supposes it's only fair – they had had a night on Dean's turf, and it hadn't worked out so well. Dean wonders if maybe this is another power thing, but he isn't sure – Castiel seemed too polite about it, in the only way one can be polite while basically controlling and taking over Dean's plans for the evening.

He has two hours before he will need to walk all the way to Castiel's house, and he thinks that if he shows up still with an empty stomach, Castiel will not be happy. So without examining the 'why' of it all too closely, he buys himself a pretzel from a street vendor and lounges in the parks and people watches until it comes time to meet up with Castiel again.

 

 

When seven forty-five ticks by, Dean rises from the park bench, his ear pressed to his phone. "Hey, Sammy," he says when the grumpy answer comes from the other end. "Wanted to make sure you'd woken up, you know."

"Yeah, I'm awake," Sam replies, sounding like he would give his left foot to not be that way. Dean laughs despite himself, in a surprisingly good mood despite the fact that somehow this man has managed to make his waste all of his afternoon. "You staying out tonight again?"

"Most likely," Dean replies, because he's not quite sure what will happen – not knowing the plan, not knowing what to expect, it should repel him and make him wary and unsure, but it doesn’t. Castiel is a mystery – one that Dean wants to dive head-first into solving. He's finding it quite difficult to get into the other man's head and that kind of thing hasn't happened for a very long time. "Not quite sure yet."

There is a pause on the other end, and then Dean _knows_ Sam is smiling. "Oh _kay_ then," he says, making the word sound like it has way more syllables in it than there need to be, and Dean just rolls his eyes because Sam is a ridiculous sap sometimes.

"Text me if you need anything," he says instead of anything else, and only stays on the line long enough to hear Sam's 'Goodbye'. He is just turning the corner to fourth street when he sees Castiel lounging in front of a small, beige-painted building that boasts the name _Le Petit Deli,_ and if that isn't all the hints Dean needs then he doesn’t know what is. The place looks cute enough, and there is an awning above them to shield from any rain (though there doesn't look like to be a drop in the sky) and the air is still pleasantly warm, but there are space heaters mounted under the awnings as well and tilted down, so that when Dean sits he can feel a pleasant heat against his back.

"Good evening, Dean," Castiel says, looking up from where he had been staring at the menu in his lap, and flashing teeth in his smile. "Did you enjoy your afternoon?"

"Plenty," Dean replies, sitting back in his chair and allowing himself to relax against the wooden frame. Castiel looks different today – well-rested, sated somehow. Dean would guess he probably spent the night at that woman's house, the one he was having dinner with last night, and that would mean he wouldn't have had to wrestle with the trains for some sleep. He carefully stifles down his emotional response to that thought – after all, he had spent the night with a woman too and it's not like he has any claim to Castiel, any reason to feel jealous or angry over the fact that they _both_ shared someone else's bed last night. "How was your night?"

Castiel shrugs one shoulder. "Uneventful," he says with a small pout, like anything less than a wild night is too boring for him, and Dean wants to laugh because it is obvious that whatever mannerisms Castiel learned from his father, being a party animal wasn't one of them. "Yours?"

"…Strenuous," Dean replies, just because he can, and it is worth it to see the flash of irritation in Castiel's eyes. It makes the blue darken to navy and black.

Castiel hums, that look fading just as quickly as it had appeared, and he sits up and sets the menu on the table for Dean to see. "They do a lovely lentil soup here," he says after another moment of vaguely tense silence. "And I highly recommend the apple pastry in the dessert section."

"You had me at apple," Dean replies with a grin, making Castiel smile back at them. It is considerably less tense after that.

When the waitress comes, Dean orders a beer and the French onion soup with half-sandwich, and Castiel has a mushroom and cheese omelet with orange juice.

"Breakfast for dinner?" Dean teases when she takes the menus and leaves.

"Life's too short to have the right thing at the right time," is Castiel's reply, and the way he looks at Dean then makes Dean dip his eyes down, cheeks flushing in a way that he blames on the heat of the space heaters behind him. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"Any time is the right time," Dean says, earning himself a laugh from the other man. "Why the Scavenger Hunt today?" he asks, wanting to change the subject and also genuinely curious. "If you'd wanted me to see you, you could have made it a lot simpler than that."

"Did it ever occur to you that I was merely telling you more about myself?" Castiel replies with a raised eyebrow, smiling briefly at the waitress as she brings back their ordered drinks and scurries away. He takes a sip of the orange juice, eyes still on Dean. "We missed most of that in the first date, and while I'm sure you could find out many things about me simply by looking, I would prefer most of that be given voluntarily."

"So you had me track you down?"

Castiel tilts his head to one side, nodding once. "Granted, it's unorthodox, but I had a feeling that you would enjoy the challenge."

Dean nods, pursing his lips out as he considers that for a moment. In truth, he had – he had liked the idea of hunting Castiel down, of finding him and tracking him no matter how badly he had tried to hide. Dean knew, of course, that if Castiel hadn't wanted to be found then Dean would have been hard pressed to find him, because he simply didn't know the man that well yet – but still, the idea that it was all hanging in the balance, he couldn't deny that he found it strangely exciting.

"So what now?" he says, tapping his fingers against his thighs and leaning back so only the back two legs of his chair are touching the ground for a brief moment.

"Now," Castiel replies, taking another drink, "you tell me about yourself. It's only fair."

"Is your world built on fair?" Dean asks with a raised eyebrow, smirking despite himself.

"We're all just bags of flesh and blood, Dean," Castiel says, voice even. "My world is based off of equal standing, and equal opportunity. So," he raises his glass in Dean's direction, "humor me."

"What would like to know?"

"Anything," comes Castiel's honest reply. "Everything." A pause. "What did you learn today? About me?"

Dean cocks his head to one side, pondering that for a moment. While he is silent, Castiel seems content to merely sit under the scrutiny, drinking his juice and idly watching people pass them by. It is a comfortable silence, Dean thinks, and then the waitress comes out again with their food, and Dean orders another juice for Castiel because he is almost out.

"No ice this time," he adds to her just as she is leaving, and Castiel raises an eyebrow at him.

"How did you guess?"

"You grimaced a little when she brought it out – I suppose you are used to getting asked that question?" Castiel nods despite himself, fingers trailing along the rim of the almost-empty glass.

"I spent a long while in France. For, ah, work of a sort. In my younger years." His smile looks somewhat forced, a darkness there that Dean notices, but doesn't comment on.

Everyone deserves secrets. "I've never been to Europe, but I think I'd like to try it out sometime. Spain, maybe, or Germany."

"Do you think you'll ever get to?" Castiel murmurs, tilting his head to one side for a moment and looking at the table.

Dean shrugs one shoulder. "I, ah, don't really appreciate airplanes. Or flying in general," he says, swallowing and clearing his throat because even the thought of it is making him a little nervous. "If they ever invented a way to drive there, I'd definitely go."

"You could take a boat."

Dean nods, considering that, and spends the time between that statement and his reply pushing down the giant crouton on the top of the soup and letting the broth soak into the cheese, while Castiel begins to cut into his omelet and takes a bite. "That'd be an awful long time to spend with not a lot of space to go."

"I imagine companionship would make it more bearable," Castiel says, though the way he says it, Dean can't tell if he is merely making an observation or dropping a hint.

"Who knows," Dean says, trying to weasel at that answer and figure it out, "I might fall in love with a runaway."

"Or a fugitive from the law." The waitress comes back out with the ice-less orange juice, and Castiel's smile is blinding towards Dean. "You still haven't told me what you've learned, Dean. You can't tease me like this."

"I can tease you all I want," Dean replies before he quite understands what has just come out of his mouth. The laugh from Castiel makes it worth it, though, he thinks, and carries on without a pause; "Why are you so eager, hmm? What are you hiding from me?"

Castiel hums, taking another bite of omelet, and Dean uses the time to start into his own meal. The soup has just cooled down enough to be pleasantly warm while he eats, and the half-sandwich is merely a grilled ham and cheese, but it tastes pretty damn good and Dean knows it's showing on his face, because Castiel is looking at him like he's an adorable, amusing little thing that fell into his life and he can't help but fall in love.

"I am merely trying to determine just how much you see, Mister Winchester," he finally says, after the omelet is almost completely gone and Dean is picking at the cold crust of his sandwich now for lack of anything else to do. "If you were to walk into my apartment, how long would it take you to peel back anything and everything, either consciously or unconsciously, that I had tried to hide? Would I ever be able to lie to you again?"

"Have you lied to me so far?" Dean asks, interested despite himself.

Castiel's smile is dark, another taunt for Dean to be hooked in by. "Perhaps," he says, finally finishing the omelet, and he sets his knife and fork down together and clenches his fingers into the edge of his napkin instead of properly wiping them. "Would you like to find out?"

Dean blinks, tilting his head to one side, because Castiel is inviting him back to his place. _Castiel_ is asking Dean to come home with him. Dean's pretty sure Castiel has no intention of, well, of _that_ , but even so he can't say he would say 'No' to the offer of a second attempt.

Still, the offer has left him reeling, because Castiel has managed to surprise him more times today than anyone else Dean has ever met. And he wants to be surprised more – he wants to peel back this man and recoil in shock at every gross, dirty little secret he is hiding. He wants to know everything and still find out he has so much left to learn.

"At my place we wouldn't have to be quiet," Dean replies after a long while, pulling out his most charming smile like he does with Lisa when she's mad at him and giving him the cold shoulder, and Castiel nods, smiling, conceding that point – it is a win for Dean, because if he's going to be taking it (and he's pretty sure that's not a choice anymore) for Castiel, then it's going to be in his own fucking bed.

Castiel seems to understand that, though, because he doesn't fight it. "How about dessert first?"

And Dean grins. "I'd like that."

 

 

Dean has to admit, that apple pastry was as good as Castiel claimed it to be – the other man had had a small slice of peach and berry cobbler, and Dean can taste the remnants of it when Castiel presses him against the wall of his building and kisses him. He isn't as harsh this time, Dean thinks, when Castiel's fingers curl around the back of his neck – a reminder and a warmth against Dean's skin that Dean thinks he could grow to like.

Now that he knows what Castiel wants of him, it's a lot easier to give into it. It has been a long time since Dean felt comfortable or drawn enough to any man to even _let_ him get that close, but there is something about Castiel – something bright and sharp and very welcoming, that makes Dean think that this will be totally worth his while, sore ass in the morning or not.

Castiel is an animal when he finally gets Dean on his back again, this short little exhale escaping him that sounds suspiciously like a 'Finally' to Dean's ears, and Dean wants to laugh because they've only known each other less than two days but it still somehow feels like forever between that time and this one, and Dean is hard and flushed and aching with the desire to peel this man apart and expose all of the dirty secrets he's hiding. He wants to know what Castiel looks like when he's been ripped of all the cool, calm exterior and turned into a creature of pure, raw need.

Their breaths are harsh in the room, and Dean shoves at Castiel's shoulders to try and persuade him to lose the clothes – the answering snarl he gets makes Dean shudder, his mouth gone dry now and his fingers shaky, palms and lower back dampening with sweat. He feels as though he has been cornered by a wild animal, and there is something about Castiel – maybe the way he bites at Dean's throat and rolls his hips down in a tease against Dean's erection, or the way his hands clench slightly too hard and his breaths are so rough and ragged – that makes Dean _want._

The light is almost blinding when Castiel pulls back enough, so that his head and his body are no longer eclipsing it as it gently swings with the moving stale air currents, and Dean winces and tries to sit up so that he is not looking directly at it. "Cas," he murmurs, surprised at how hoarse his voice is, "lemme get up, turn that off -."

" _No_." The vehemence surprises Dean, and he looked up, blinking wide eyes to see Castiel almost glaring back down at him, and Dean's fingers clench in the bedsheets and he tries to make himself go still again. Then, as quickly as it had come, Castiel's anger melts away, leaving a gentleness and lightness that doesn't fit with his eyes, as he lays a hand across Dean's cheek and pulls him forward into another kiss. "I want to see you, Dean."

He silences Dean again with his mouth before the younger man can reply, tongue sliding in between Dean's lips as easy as anything, curling around the back of his teeth, and Dean shivers. "Lie down," Castiel growls against Dean's mouth, eyes half-lidded and dark, and Dean sinks his teeth into Castiel's lower lip in reply – just because he'll be taking it up the ass tonight does _not_ mean he's gonna just bend over and let Castiel have at him.

Castiel jerks back in surprise, a startled laugh falling from him. Dean licks his lips and thinks he might have tasted blood, but Castiel doesn't look injured – no, he looks proud, amazed, like Dean had learned a new trick. "Alright, Winchester, alright."

It sounds like a challenge, and Dean isn't let down – Castiel shoves himself up from the bed, then, his weight leaving Dean's legs, and his fingers fly to the button-down hanging off his shoulders, and he shrugs it off before pulling his t-shirt over his head, so Dean uses the opportunity to follow suit, boots clunking heavily to the floor and the clink of belt buckles falling soon after.

When they are both in a similar state of undress, underwear still clinging to Dean's body because he doesn't want to make it _too_ easy on the bastard, Dean shoves him upright just to spite Castiel, heading to the light near his door and making sure Castiel understands exactly where he's going.

He expects the growl, the warmth of a hard body shoving up against his back, and hisses when it means his bare chest comes into contact with the relatively cool wood of the door. He'd managed to turn off the light, so the air around them is black thanks to Dean's heavy curtains, with no source of outside light and no light within aside from the glow of his alarm clock. He can hear Castiel make another low sound behind him, long fingers curling tight around Dean's flanks and not his wrists because Dean has no intention of going anywhere – not yet.

"Come on," he hisses, when Castiel merely stands and breathes and neither of them moves for a second too long. "Come _on,_ you son of a bitch."

The laugh Castiel lets out then makes the hair at the back of his neck stand on edge, and then Castiel is moving back, fingers lacing through Dean's to drag them back towards the bed. Dean feels the edge of his mattress hit his shins and then he is crawling up into the middle of it, and Castiel lets go of his hand so Dean cannot see where he is at all.

He almost flinches when he feels something small and plastic hit his forearm. He sucks in a deep breath, reaching down and feeling the sticky edges of a small bottle, and when he opens it the distinct smell of latex and chemicals hits his nose: lubricant. "Lazy asshole," he taunts, simply because he can, and tips some of the lube onto his fingers. It's chill and he rubs his fingers together to help warm it up, settling back on his haunches and then bracing himself against the headboard. "Not gonna join me?"

Castiel doesn’t answer, but Dean can hear the shifting of weight, from just ahead of him and to his right, and he knows that Castiel is waiting – biding his time. For what, Dean doesn't know. Maybe he's one of those people who gets off on sound, or maybe he's simply trying to scare Dean, or maybe -.

"Do a good job, Dean," comes Castiel's voice out of the darkness – and Dean was right, he's standing at the foot of the bed, just to the right of him. Then, amused-sounding; "Don't underestimate me."

Dean wants to laugh at that, but truth be told he's been half-hard since Castiel suggested carrying on this night after dinner, and he wants to get this show on the road – and, Hell, this is _not_ one of the weirdest things Dean's ever done for sex, and it's probably better, now that he thinks about it, 'cause at least this way he can make sure he does the job right and doesn't hurt himself.

With that thought, he takes a deep breath and lets it out, letting his knees fall open as he slips lower on the bed. One of his hands drags down to the hem of his boxers, digging under to grab his cock and pull it free, the other reaching farther to dip between his legs, and he shivers at the instinct to clench up and fight the touch.

"Do it, Dean," Castiel rasps, hardly even a voice anymore and more like a whisper in Dean's mind, and Dean can feel his weight digging into the side of the bed as he comes to kneel on it. Not touching Dean – not yet, but how badly Dean burns for him, how much he wants Castiel to slide a hand across his skin and dig his nails into Dean's flesh and touch him – _God, how he wants Castiel to touch him_ – but he remains out of reach, and burning warmth and a taunting voice at Dean's side. "Fuck, you're breathing so heavily."

It should embarrass Dean, he thinks, but it just makes his spine arch up, head instinctively turning towards the sound of Castiel's voice, and he thinks that maybe he can just see the slope of his shoulders and the glint of his blue eyes, shining from the light of his alarm clock. He sucks in another breath, swiping his thumb over the moist head of his cock at the same time he steels himself and slides a first finger in until he has to stop, the sensation jarring. It feels like too much even though he knows it's not that much, not yet – and certainly as gentle as it's going to get. He breathes out again, doing his best to relax, and strokes himself through the feeling until the sharpness melts away into a dull throb.

"That's it," Castiel hisses, sounding triumphant and harsh, his fingertips just brushing against Dean's shoulder in some mockery of a reward, but it's sudden enough to make Dean gasp, and he starts to move his finger – and his hand at the same time, because it's easier to ignore the discomfort when his fist is so tight around his cock, keeping him up.

Distantly he can hear a slick movement that is not his own hand, and with a sudden gasp he realizes that Castiel must be touching himself as well – getting off to the thought of Dean stretching himself open, and _God_ , it really must be a power thing, because Castiel's breathing is as harsh as Dean's is. With that thought, he slides another finger in, hissing at the burn and the stretch, and starts to move them – he wants to prove something, now, though he's not quite sure what it is.

"Don't you dare," he says to Castiel, not sure how much of a threat he can really have in his voice with two fingers up his ass and his hand fisted tightly around the base of his cock, but the short, choked sound Castiel makes is worth the flush staining Dean's cheeks and chest. " _Cas_."

The touch comes suddenly, again, jarring enough that it makes Dean's breath stutter – an innocent enough touch, he thinks, but without his other senses to help him it is the only thing he has in that moment, and so the brush of Castiel's hand down his chest is like a lightning strike. The dip in the bed moves, farther down between Dean's legs, and Dean spreads them wider as though Castiel can see what he's doing – he can't, but he sucks in a breath anyway, and Dean tilts his head back and swallows hard.

"Dean." It's whispered, so softly Dean wouldn't have been able to hear under normal circumstances, and Castiel's palm flattens, trekking upwards over the curve of his thighs, nails scratching along the edge of muscle until he reaches the hem of Dean's underwear, still clinging stubbornly to his thighs, and his fingers dig under. Dean understands the unspoken command, lifting his hips to let Castiel hook his fingers in and drag the last piece of clothing Dean is wearing down, off his legs and discarded somewhere on the floor. Through it all – this strange, slow, intimate moment – Dean can only lie back and breathe. There is something about the intensity that he _knows_ is being directed his way, even if he cannot see it, that makes Castiel's stare a thousand times worse. He wants to flinch under the scrutiny.

He can feel Castiel moving again; a warmth solidifying into the feeling of a gentle kiss pressed against the inside of his thigh, Castiel's legs moving between his, thighs tucking underneath his own. The scruff on Castiel's neck itches at Dean's thigh and the warmth of his breath leaves goose bumps in its wake, making Dean shiver.

He can't take it anymore, and he slides his fingers out of him, shoving himself up onto his elbows and reaching out to touch the other man. Castiel allows it, low rumble of pleasure reaching Dean's ears when Dean brushes his sweat-damp palm against Castiel's arm, the older man's hand finding Dean's, lube-slick and hot, and curling their fingers together.

When he presses Dean's hand back onto the bed, Dean goes, allowing himself to be pushed onto his back and blanketed by the other man – at least they can agree on this, Dean thinks: if he's gonna let a guy fuck him on the second date, they're going to do it face-to-face, even if the lights are off.

Then, Dean cannot think much about anything anymore; Castiel's mouth on his neck is driving him to distraction, harsh bites laid against Dean's skin, sucking noises that would be obnoxious anywhere else but here set Dean's skin on fire, filling the air between them, and Dean wants to protest the blatant claim of ownership, because Castiel is surely leaving a mark far too high for any shirt to cover on Dean's neck, and Castiel does _not_ own Dean, but it suddenly doesn't matter. Castiel's hand closes around his erection – and Dean had let go at some point, his hand flown to the back of Castiel's head, fingers knotting tight, urging him onwards – and the other man gives Dean two solid strokes that arch his back and force a hiss out of him. Dean feels shaky, out of breath, desperate in a way he cannot explain to himself. He can feel the hard jut of Castiel's erection between his legs, a teasing, hot press against his stretched opening, but Castiel is not pressing the advantage. Instead, Castiel releases Dean's cock, and flattens his hand out over Dean's thigh, nails digging in tight enough to surely leave more marks, and with a strength that surprises Dean, he coaxes Dean to curve his body towards Castiel, their limbs twisting and entwining so tightly that Dean feels like he cannot find enough air to breathe.

"Dean," Castiel growls out, breath hot and heavy against Dean's neck. It's not a question, or an order, or a plea – it's not anything. A curse; a statement of fact, perhaps, and Dean disentangles his fingers from Castiel's lube-slick ones and wraps his arm around the other man's shoulders and pulls him in.

He can feel the tension thrumming through Castiel, feel just how much he is holding back. "Do it," he replies after a long moment, teasing just because he wants to see if Castiel can wait – can perch on the edge of oblivion for as long as Dean can.

It is like something snaps inside of Castiel, because the man lets out a sound that Dean doesn’t think he has ever heard a human make, and braces himself over Dean's body, hand on Dean's thigh retreating briefly to guide himself into the tight clench of Dean's body. Once he feels it – feels the hot tug of the man against the head of his cock, he grabs for Dean's thighs again, and thrusts inside as harshly as he dares – just to hear Dean choke and stutter out his name.

"Ah, Cas, _fuck!_ " Dean hisses, accusation in his voice as his back bows and he goes tense, pain ricocheting like bullet fragments through him. Castiel is much bigger than the two fingers Dean had managed to get to, and the burn is sudden and building – it does not ebb away, but stays, and builds, and Dean clenches down tight to try and fight it away.

Castiel laughs – a tight, rough sound, his exhale pressed against Dean's neck. "You underestimated me, didn't you?" he asks, because he cannot help himself, and because teasing Dean brings this light out in the man's eyes that makes him even more beautiful – and Castiel knows it is there, even if his sight is robbed from him at that moment.

He raises his head, just enough to lean over Dean and slant their lips together, breathing in the sound of Dean's pained moan as he rolls his hips deeper into the hot, tight clench of the man – dear God, does it feel good, though, feeling Dean's body spasming in rejection for him even as the man himself fights so hard to let him in. Castiel's fingers flex against the bed sheets, a low growl swallowed back behind his teeth.

"I'll make it good for you," he promises, kissing the words against Dean's open mouth as he starts to move, and Dean winces and clutches at his shoulders and lets him – truth be told, although the pain is far from dulling, there are other sensations that his brain can choose to focus on, and so Dean lets it. Castiel is a harsh-slick-drag inside of him, warmth around him and between his legs that Dean knows he could never get with Lisa or any of the other women and men he keeps at his beck and call. And it is good – the dull throb of his sore neck and the bite of Castiel's nails against his thigh, and the sound of the man breathing harshly above him – fuck, it _is_ good, and Dean can feel his body surrendering to it without permission from his mind, his cock hardening fully again after it had flagged when his hand closes around it and begins to stroke.

"Fuck, Cas," Dean breathes, his free hand palming the side of the man's face simply because he wants to memorize the feel of the rough stubble against his hand, trace the line of Castiel's pressed-thin mouth and the crinkles that form around his eyes when they're clenched so tightly shut. "Come on, Cas, _damn it_ -."

Castiel makes a sound – a muffled curse against Dean's mouth – and fucks in again. Harsher this time, his grip painful and tight against Dean's skin but Dean cannot find it in himself to flinch away. Not with the lightning-strike of Castiel inside of him every other thrust, _God_ , he feels like he's going to melt from the inside out, and he cannot breathe air properly because it feels like Castiel is fucking deep enough that he can feel it in his throat, and _God_ , he never wants it to end.

Dean arches his back, eager to find that one angle that will have his entire body lighting up, and his eyes flare open when Castiel circles his hips and finds it. A breathless gasp leaves him, then, eyes sightless and staring upwards, and he pulls Castiel down for another rough kiss. Castiel snarls against his mouth and Dean can feel the bite of his teeth against his lower lip, Castiel's hands forgoing holding his weight up altogether and instead relying on his tensed thighs tucked and braced under Dean's, and his large hands are flattened under Dean and lifting him up to fuck in deeper.

And then Castiel rips their mouths apart, making Dean gasp at the rush of cold air that suddenly greets him, and the older man's teeth are at Dean's throat again and Dean is clutching at the back of his head, fingers knotting tight in his hair and _God,_ he's coming – _fuck –_ "Fuck, fuck, _Cas!_ " His entire body feels tensed like a spring about to snap, shuddering and sweaty and sated in a way he can't begin to describe. Castiel lets out another rough, broken sound, an open-mouthed kiss sucked onto Dean's throat, and he presses his hips tight enough to Dean's thighs that Dean can feel the spurs of them digging in. For a long – so long, God, Dean feels like he'll never come down – moment, both of them are still and silent.

Then, Dean hears a low growl, and he stiffens, sucking in a harsh breath, and turns his head towards the source of it. In the shadows, he of course cannot see anything, except he can – the arching spine of that great, big, black cat, its eyes flashing in the reflection of his dim alarm clock. Castiel does not seem to notice it, and Dean knows it's in his head – the creature prowling closer, white teeth visible behind the curl of its upper lip and within its snarling mouth – but he can't fight the fear that the vision brings him anyway.

He cannot move – not because Castiel has him pinned down, but because he feels frozen, chilled down to his very core as the cat crawls closer to him. Its large paws sink into the bed, white claws out and serrated like the edge of a knife. The cat is still growling, coming closer, closer – God, it's coming for both of them, tongue curling around the bloodied edges of its teeth, and Dean is panting and his heart is beating so incredibly quickly because he can't _move_.

He stares up at the cat as it stretches a paw out, landing harshly on his chest, and he gasps because he can feel the weight of the giant animal – feel it pressing down on his ribs as though it intends to crush him where he lays. Then, the cat leans down, and licks once across his mouth with the scratchy edges of its tongue.

Dean braces himself, and waits for the animal to attack, but he is jarred out of the vision by Castiel, breathing out and pulling himself from Dean's body, sticky-tacky-wet and breathless. Dean gasps again, sitting up, and reaches for the bedside lamp. It has an energy-efficient bulb inside which means it takes forever to come to full light and does not blind either of them when it flickers to life.

Castiel looks flushed, breathless and bright-eyed, and the cat is nowhere to be seen. "Perfect," he murmurs, looking at Dean like he wishes to devour him all over again and Dean flushes red and pulls his legs together and tries to move from the wet spot. "Fuck, Dean, that was…"

"Yeah." Dean feels shivery, afterglow completely ruined by the vision of the cat, and though he knows it was just a stupid rambling on his mind's part – a random mesh of facts and fantasy from his work life mixing at one of the most inopportune moments – he cannot help but dart his eyes to the shadows, expecting to see the great beast curled up and purring, tail flicking lazily.

"I'll see myself out, then." Dean's head snaps up, because _no_ , Castiel can't go, otherwise the cat will come back and it will rip his throat out and he can't – he _can't leave_.

"Nah, dude, come on," Dean replies, rolling his eyes and trying to sound nonchalant, though he's not sure how well he manages when cold sweat has broken out along his brow and his fingers are trembling. "It's late – just sleep here. My bed's plenty big." Castiel raises an eyebrow at him, an amused smirk pulling at his mouth, and Dean flushes again, pressing his lips together in answer.

He will not beg, but it's a close thing.

"There's a morning blowjob in it for you," Dean says after another long moment, cocky grin plastered across his face, and Castiel laughs and rolls his eyes, relenting with another amused smirk. He pulls the bedcovers back (and Dean would be mildly embarrassed to find that they hadn't even gotten _under_ the sheets, but right now he's too relieved at the idea that Castiel is _staying_ ) and slides in behind Dean, reaching over him to flick the bedside lamp back off.

Dean tenses, expecting the cat to come back as soon as the lights are out, but Castiel's arm settles across his chest and nothing happens – slowly, Dean can feel the tension begin to bleed from his body, as he attempts to close his eyes, catch some semi-restful sleep before he is ripped into consciousness again.

He does not dream of the giant cat, but rather of the young wolf – prowling close to the ground, ears forward and alert, chasing something that remains entirely out of reach to the animal. He does not see the cat at all during his dream, but cannot shake the feeling that the animal is always close behind.

When he breaks from sleep, shaking and breathing hard and panicked, Castiel is a warm relief by his side. He cannot tell if the man wakes during his episodes – if he does he says nothing; merely shifts his weight and pulls Dean just a little closer until Dean ends up with his head tucked underneath Castiel's chin and their legs firmly intertwined.


	4. Four

Castiel awakens to an empty bed, the scent of sex and warmth clinging to the inside of his mouth when he rolls onto his back, breathing deeply and stretching his arms over his head. His head feels somewhat fuzzy and his eyes are heavy with a well-rested night, uninterrupted by noise or movement. He stretches until he feels his back cracking, loudly, and collapses with a sigh.

Then, he rolls onto his side, and flicks the light on. He is alone in the bed, the slight warmth in the depression on the other side meaning he hasn't been that way for long, and the sheets are tossed back on the other side. Perhaps Dean went to the bathroom.

Pushing himself up so that he is resting against the headboard, Castiel allows himself a brief survey of the room. It's not as large as he would have thought given the relative square-footage of the ground floor, but it is spacious enough. The window has heavy black-out curtains that tease at the impression of sunlight around their edges, and the walls are painted a muted cream color, like what is done for showrooms before they become an individual's own. Dean never bothered to paint his room because most of the time he spends in here is darkness.

The sheets, similarly, are generic and bland, white and cream duvet and black pillowcases. It is tasteful, almost, and not at all what Castiel would have expected from Dean, he thinks – the man leaves an impression everywhere he goes, except for the places he chooses to stay.

It is then that Castiel becomes aware of music, floating in from behind the closed bedroom door. Curious, he shoves himself upright, stretching again – this time he cannot fight a smirk at the protests of his body, because it sure as Hell hadn't been complaining at the time – and slides back into his jeans from the night before and pulls on his t-shirt over that, leaving the button-down off but folding it up neatly on the end of the bed. Dean's clothes are nowhere in sight but Castiel doesn't take that to mean that Dean has redressed as well. After all, Dean has access to other clothes here.

When he opens the door it is not difficult to find the source of the music – farther into the bowels of the house and away from the staircase, there is another closed door, and so Castiel turns off Dean's bedroom light and shuts the door behind him, padding on silent feet towards the other door. He knocks, because it is polite to knock and this is not his own house, but gets no answer except a slight lowering in volume of the music.

Well, politeness only extends so far, and the door is not locked, so he twists the handle down and lets the door fall open. If Dean does not want him in here, there is plenty of time to catch it and shoo him out.

But Dean does not. Inside this room there is a futon spread out along the floor, and the room is much larger than Dean's bedroom – there are several television sets along the walls and the walls are painted a soft, light blue color. Much more relaxing, Castiel thinks, and the black futon is covered in fluff and dust and haphazard blankets – is dirty in a way Dean's bed simply isn't. Well used, he thinks, and well loved.

Dean is sitting on the futon, three manila folders spread out in front of him, and he looks up when Castiel enters. Almost immediately his cheeks redden, but he smirks at Castiel. "Hey there, sleepy."

"What time is it?" Castiel asks, because he had not checked and Dean isn't sending him out. He closes the door behind him but remains by the threshold.

"Almost eleven," Dean says, just as the news jingle for the top of the hour plays on one of the sets. "Eleven on the dot," he amends with a nod, and then goes back to staring at the folders. He does not appear to even be reading them, really – his hands are still, flattened out across his knees, but his lips are moving and his brow is furrowed. "Sorry if you have somewhere to be."

"It's a Sunday," is all Castiel says in reply with a slight grin, and Dean nods in acquiescence. "New case?"

"Old ones," Dean replies, sighing and rolling his shoulders. Then, he picks up a small universal remote by his feet and starts flicking the televisions off, one by one, until only the music is playing and then that gets shut off too. "I think they're linked somehow, but I can't tell yet."

"You think?" Castiel asks, tilting his head to one side, and Dean nods. "Does no one else think so?"

"Nah." Dean rubs his hand over his mouth, shaking his head. "Doesn't matter, I guess." With that, he flips the case files closed, stacking them one on top of the other, and pushes himself to his feet and goes over to Castiel. "But where are my manners? I made a deal with you last night."

"I don't think we have a good reputation with deals," Castiel replies, but truth be told he's already feeling warm with anticipation and Dean is looking at him like he'll eat Castiel alive given half the chance, and so Castiel doesn't fight it when Dean leads the way back to his bedroom and shoves Castiel down onto the bed.

Their kiss is messy and slow, Dean pressing down with his full weight onto Castiel's body. Dean knows that Castiel can overpower him – he'd shown that before though damned if Dean knows where he keeps all that hidden strength – but Castiel accepts the weight of him with grace, biting at Dean's lower lip in a playful warning that makes Dean shiver.

Castiel arches his body up into Dean's, already breathless with want as Dean's skilled hands start to wander up and down his body, finding out and teasing at all the sensitive spots around Castiel's hips and thighs and flanks that make him moan and shudder, his legs spreading out to give Dean enough room for his head and shoulders.

His fingers trail across the darkened bruises sucked onto Dean's neck, as Dean slides down him, mapping a trail with his mouth and his hands as he goes. Castiel slides his nails against the soft hair at the back of Dean's head, sleep-mussed and fluffy, and he drags his palm over Dean's shoulders just to feel the new knots created by Dean's sleep and the forced fold in his body from last night.

He wants to feel it all, drink it from Dean's mouth, and consume this man from the inside out. And when Dean finally gets his cock free and slides Castiel into his mouth, it is all Castiel can do to simply lie back and let him.

Dean is not exceptionally talented in this area, more used to the deep-slide and softness of women than the hard jut of a man, but he is enthusiastic and Castiel cannot fault him for that. The older man closes his eyes, lets his hand settle on the back of Dean's head – not pushing or guiding, merely letting Dean set the pace for now – nails gently scraping across Dean's nape in a soothing gesture that, if anything, spurs Dean onwards. Dean has an urge to succeed, he supposes – to strip down any and all measures of control set in place so that he can see everything, expose everything to his all-seeing gaze.

The slick-wet sound of Dean's mouth on him is almost as arousing as the visual Dean presents, when Castiel folds his free arm behind his head to prop himself up for a better look. The sight of Dean's lips, spread wide and red around Castiel's girth, makes him tighten his hold until Dean muffles a soft sound of discomfort, but he keeps going like the eager boy he is, wrapping tight fingers around what he cannot reach and letting his saliva drip down and get them slick as he strokes.

Castiel gasps, stifling a rough curse behind his teeth, and tilts his head back towards the ceiling because he cannot stare at Dean any longer, otherwise he will not last. Dean's eyes flash to his face, knowing and blackened, and Castiel can feel gentle fingers cupping his balls, squeezing his shaft tightly as Dean sucks harder.

The small, blunt scrape of teeth is what sends Castiel over the edge, and he grabs Dean's hair hard enough to hurt and forces him to stay down and swallow it all. Dean does, rough-edged and panting hard when Castiel finally lets him go to breathe, swallowing more than once to get rid of the taste.

For a long second, they simply stare at each other, Dean blushing and hard and Castiel reeling from the orgasm. Then; "Come here," Castiel growls, snarls more like, as he reaches up to yank Dean down and over his hips, legs falling on either side. Castiel roughly grabs at his clothes, shoving the halves of his jeans apart and damn near breaking the zipper doing so, but then he has a hand around Dean and the younger man is shaking and breathing hard and spilling over Castiel's hand in less than a minute. "There we go," Castiel murmurs, sounding pleased with himself when Dean collapses forward and buries his face against Castiel's neck. "Fuck, Dean, you're so fucking perfect."

Dean has to laugh at that. "Alright, pillow-talk," he replies with a smirk, blush darkening on his cheeks. Red is definitely Dean's color. Then, Dean is pushing at his shoulders. "Let me go. I need to shower."

"Alone?" Castiel asks with a raised eyebrow, but despite his best efforts Dean is apparently more coordinated after an orgasm than Castiel is, because he slides from the bed with ease and tucks himself back in, ignoring the fresh stain of semen on his clothes.

"We can't all have lazy Sundays," Dean says with a small, one-shouldered shrug. "There's food downstairs, and I'm not kicking you out yet, but I do have to be productive at some point today."

Castiel rolls his eyes with an overdramatic sigh. "I suppose you have to go solve a murder and save someone's life," he says long-sufferingly, earning a smirk from Dean. "That's what I get for falling for a good boy."

"Tell you what," Dean says, stepping back so he is between Castiel's legs where the older man is sitting on the edge of the bed, legs slung over the side. He takes Castiel's face in his hands, running his fingers through the man's hair just to mess it up more, and tilts his head up for a long, dirty kiss. "In the other room, there's a crossword puzzle book. If you can finish the one I've got going by the time I get out of the shower, I'll let you ruin the whole point of one."

Castiel raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "And if I don't? Or can't?" he prompts, placing his hands over Dean's and dragging his thumb under Dean's palms, just to make his fingers curl.

Dean smiles again, dark and promising, and leans in for a dry drag of his mouth against Castiel's, just shy of kissing him again. "You wouldn't want to disappoint me, would you?" he asks, and Castiel's eyes darken at the challenge, the parody of his own words from before. Dean knew it would strike a chord with the other man – Castiel does not like being told he cannot do something. Does not like the idea of being challenged or cowed into submission or defeat. Dean smiles and presses a chaste kiss against him again. "I'll see you in a little while."

"Alright," Castiel answers, voice rough, and he follows Dean out and towards the other door while Dean grabs another change of clothes and heads to his shower. On the way, his phone rings and so Dean answers, watching the door close behind Castiel, and puts it on speaker, setting it on the small shelf over the sink while he undresses and gets the water running.

"Winchester."

"Dean, we need you down at the station," Pike's voice filters through from the other end; "Might have a possible hit from the video outside Bradbury's apartment. Not sure yet – could use your eye."

That's code for 'we're not sure if someone standing around is suspicious or not, what do you think?'. Dean scoffs, shaking his head, and sighs. "Yeah, alright, I can be there in an hour."

"See you then," Pike says in reply, and Dean nods to himself and turns his phone back off as he steps into the shower.

A possible lead – this case was moving a little more quickly than the others. It had taken four days for reporters to even establish that Amelia Milton had been married, and then another four to find her husband's body. If they could get a decent lead out of this video, Dean might actually catch the (son of a) bitch.

 

 

Dean comes back out of the shower to find a note taped to the door: _Something came up. I'll see you tonight._ A phone number follows it and Dean smiles, taking it down and transferring Castiel's number into his phone, before he takes the stairs down and lights the note on fire and puts it in the sink to rinse. There is evidence that Sam has come home and eaten, and when Dean looks outside the paint is slightly smudged but it has not been redrawn – so Castiel left after Sam was already home. Alright.

He sends Castiel a text as he's grabbing a sandwich from the fridge and unwrapping it to eat. _There's an Irish bar on sixth. Best baked potato you'll ever have. Seven sound good?_ And then he's grabbing his jacket and repainting the line outside the door just in time to receive an _I'll see you there._

He doesn't think he could fight his smile even if he wanted to – despite the fact that he's likely about to walk into another darker facet of the murder investigation, and his sleep had been fraught with nightmares, he feels fairly buoyed by the idea that he might see Castiel again tonight, assuming something else doesn't 'come up'.

The police station is practically buzzing, especially considering the fact that it is early Sunday morning, but still Dean easily locates Mister Pike and gives him a half-hearted salute as the man waves him over. "Whatcha got for me?" he asks, already leaning over the man's shoulder and peering at the flickering computer screen in front of him.

"Check this guy out," Pike murmurs, pointing towards a blurry image of a suited man standing close to the wall, not moving with his hands in his pockets and his face shadowed by the brim of a hat. "He's in here for thirty-eight minutes of video, just watching people go by – or, maybe, the apartment. What do you think?"

Dean takes the keyboard from him, rewinding the clip to the very beginning of the man's appearance. He keeps checking his phone, Dean notes, though he can't make out anything useful about it like color or model. Still, everything is important when it comes to a murder investigation, and so he does not fault Mister Pike for presuming that this man might be linked.

"This the tape you forwarded to me?" he asks, and catches the man's nod out of the corner of his eye. "Gimme a minute?"

Pike nods again, vacating his seat and leaving Dean to his work. The half-hearted offer for coffee goes ignored as Dean rewinds the entire tape, eyes scanning the scene fervently – this is Dean at work; focused and on edge and just _waiting_ for something to fall out of place. Some weird misstep in the two-dimensional images reflected back to him, something that catches his attention.

He closes his eyes, and breathes out, doing his best to tune out all of the outside noise around him. Given that he has spent so much time training his brain to do the exact opposite, it takes a while for him to be able to focus purely on the images he is watching – with his ears not engaged, they tend to wander and while he might find the stilted conversation of this morning's awkward post-affair interesting on any other day –.

 _Stop it_ , he thinks to himself, rubbing a hand over his mouth and shaking it off.

It takes him a while – one-hundred-and-seven minutes, if he were counting, but then he leans back and waves vaguely for Mister Pike's attention, waiting until he feels the heat of the man next to him and can smell his oddly earthly cologne. "There," he murmurs, pausing it and tapping his fingers against the screen. Mister Pike peers closer. "She's made a round of the place three times in the past ten minutes of footage alone – seven times altogether." He rattles off the times of her appearances and hands the keyboard back to Mister Pike for him to enhance and zoom in as he pleases.

"What about that man, though?" the detective mutters, eyeing Dean.

"He was waiting for someone, true," Dean concedes, rubbing his hand over his mouth again before going to his eyes. He hates computers – they always fuck up his eyesight for hours afterward. "But he doesn't reappear after. This woman, she…" He shrugs, waving vaguely towards the screen. "When people are lost, they don't keep turning left, do they? She does. She's not lost, and she's not following anyone. She's scoping the place out."

"Alright, let's see if I can get a better look of her," Pike murmurs after a quick once-over in Dean's direction.

"Two-forty-two is the best shot of her," Dean replies, cracking his knuckles and wincing at the loud sound. He can feel the nervous thrum of energy from possibly finding a suspect before they leave the city, of finally catching the bitch before they – although it is looking more and more like a 'she' – leave town and becomes just another unsolved number.

"Let's see…" Pike mutters when he's focused, which would be irritating under any other circumstances, and has irritated Dean before, but Dean's senses are wide open and totally focused on the image of the woman, as slowly Pike goes frame by frame until she is almost facing the camera. As he watches, the computer scans over the grainy image of her face, the poor software doing its best to soften the corners and sharpen the edges and erase the shadows to give a clearer image.

Dean sucks in a breath. "Holy shit," he whispers, and it escapes him before he can stop it. Mister Pike doesn't hear him, too focused on his work and unable to hear Dean's soft exclamation, but Dean's fingers are curling into the edge of the desk and his heart feels like it just tried to jump a cliff.

"There she is," Pike mutters in satisfaction, printing out a copy of the woman's face. She has dark eyes and a wild mane of black hair, and her face is set into a mask of concentration and focus, eyes settled on something out of the frame. "She looks kind of familiar…"

Dean swallows. "That's her high school sweetheart," he says, avoiding Mister Pike's eyes because secrets always come through the eyes. "She was in the picture by Charlie's bed – younger, shorter hair, but definitely her."

"Sweethearts, huh?" the detective answers, mouth twisted in a grim smile. "So, reunion gone wrong? Spurned lesbian lover?"

"No need to get excited over the sexuality of it," Dean bites out, shoving himself to his feet. "Charlie and this woman used to date. That's a tie, a link somewhere, and it's better than anything else we've got."

"I'll put an A.P.B. out," Pike replies, somewhat chastised, and Dean nods, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Thanks for the eyes, Dean. I'll let you know if we catch anything more."

"Sure." Dean swallows, clearing his throat, and then makes a quick getaway out of the offices and towards the main foyer of the building, before he bursts out into the sun-brightened street below. The air is crisp and cool and a balm against his forehead, but he still feels too warm and his chest is tight with what he has seen. At his feet he can feel the big black cat pushing against his legs and trying to trip him over so that it – _she_ – can devour him.

Because that woman – yes, he had not seen her face, but that hair was unmistakable – was the one Castiel had been having dinner with, when Dean was out with Lisa. Dean had been in the same room as her two fucking nights ago – how could he not have _smelled_ the blood on her hands? He shudders at the thought, at yet another reminder that he's not up to one-hundred percent right now.

And Castiel knows her. What does that make him? A brother, a lover, an accomplice?

"Fuck," Dean growls, raking his fingernails over his scalp harshly enough to try and center and ground him. "Fuck," he says again simply because he has to put into some kind of sound the thoughts flying through his head – if he doesn't let them out they'll spin around his head like hornets and sting him again and again until he can't concentrate on anything else. They'll consume him.

He needs to go back to the case files – there is an undeniable link between Charlie and this woman, he should be able to figure out who she is and therefore what connection she might have to the other murder victims. And to Castiel.

With that decision, Dean feels a little calmer, and he raises his head and does his best to breathe out slowly. He turns around and hurries back inside to ask for a copy of the picture from Mister Pike, and with that done he all but runs home and seals himself into his second room again to drag the case files out as well as his notebook.

He keeps the televisions switched off.

This is important.

 

 

The giant black cat is back. Only this time there are three of them – three large beasts prowling through a city, as big as a two-story house but light and completely unnoticed. The citizens are asleep and do not notice the glowing yellow eyes of one, or the abyssal black of another. One of them is the color of a cent, rust and ruin carved into her bones, blood between her eyes as she curls her lips back and snarls. Another is black like the first, with grey around her muzzle and feet, barbs sticking out of her shoulders and wrapped tight around her neck. The first one – the one that Dean keeps seeing – is sleek and healthy, glossy and black. The smallest of the three of them but undeniably the most powerful one. The three of them are advancing on him, he can hear their low rumbling growls in his head, the distant roar of giant animals creeping closer, ready for a hunt.

There is a wolf by his side, just as large but shrouded in darkness with eyes like a blood moon, and when he tips his head back and howls, two of the cats drop, hissing, backs arching and fur standing up straight, but do not advance. The whole cat, that is sleek and unharmed and powerful, is the only one that can advance. The only one that shrieks in anger and keeps on coming.

Dean can feel the wolf snarling. They're going to attack each other. One of them is going to die.

His phone snaps him out of the dream – though can he call it a dream? He isn't lying down and he's still fully clothes – and he hastily wipes his hands over his face to clear it of sweat, and grabs blindly for his phone, answering and pressing it to his ear without checking Caller ID. "Hello?"

"You're late."

Dean breathes out, blinking a few times to try and clear his vision, and frowns in an attempt to momentarily place the voice. Then it hits him; Castiel. "Oh, shit, really?" he asks, grabbing the TV remotes and flicking on the news on mute – the time in the corner indeed tells him that it is currently seven-forty-seven. "Shit, I'm so sorry. I can be there in ten."

"It's no trouble," Castiel replies smoothly, in a way that makes Dean think it actually _is_ no trouble, because they've only known each other two days and Dean is by far not the only ass in the city. "Are you alright?"

"I, ah, got wrapped up in a case," Dean says, and that is the truth. The vision, though, was not. He's been having those more often, and honestly they scare the living shit out of him. His hands are sweaty and a brief glance in the mirror tells him he looks pale and sallow. "Guess I lost track of time."

"The infamous Dean Winchester getting lost in his own head?" Dean pauses at that, because Castiel sound amused, but also concerned. Like he's reading something in Dean's voice that Dean doesn't even know about. It makes him think – Castiel knows the woman from the tape. He had dinner with her not two nights ago. And that might mean something. Because he only came to town recently, 'for a job' that he didn't specify, and this woman – Dean is pretty sure he would remember her if he'd ever seen her before. Granted, it's not a small city and people can hide from his sight all the time, but Dean purposefully keeps his circles wide open and the fact that both of them could so easily fall into his radar after having been there for no time at all worries him. "Dean? Are you sure you're okay?"

"I, ah, yeah." He coughs, rubbing a hand over his face. "I'm really sorry I missed dinner. Can we raincheck?"

"Of course," Castiel replies smoothly. "How about tomorrow night?"

"Sounds good," Dean croaks, his voice rough and weak-sounding even to his own ears.

"I'll see you soon, Dean." His voice is a low purr, a promising growl, and Dean shivers and flinches at the same time.

"Bye, Cas," he says, hanging up quickly and breathing out. He's tired, he's hungry, and he feels like Hell.

When he gets downstairs, Sam is reading the paper and eating one of the sandwiches Dean prepared the day before. He gives Dean a cursory wave in a hello, then does a double take and looks up at his brother as Dean sits down at the table near him and presses their lower legs together harshly, craving the contact. "Dean? You okay?"

"I had a…" Dean swallows, rubbing a hand over his face and back through his hair. He's walking a fine line between classified material, needing answers and not having Sam commit him to a mental institution. "I kind of had a moment today."

Sam immediately sets the paper and food down, his other leg bracketing Dean's first in so Dean has double the contact and almost immediately Dean can feel himself relaxing a little. "What triggered it?" he asks, sounding calm and professional but Dean hasn't had an episode like this since their dad died and really it is fucking worrying.

"I…" He looks down, breathing out heavily again, and tries to remember. "I don't know. I don't remember anything today since the precinct."

"Dean, it's okay." And Dean wants to snap at him because it's _not_ okay, his brain doesn't _forget_ things, doesn't blank things out because what good is it to him if it does that? "Talk me through your day, then. We'll figure it out."

"Right." He sighs again, pressing his lips together hard enough that the edges white out, drumming his nails against the countertop. "Well, Pike left a message for me to come to the precinct, said there was some footage I should look at. And I did."

"And?" Sam asks, when Dean stretches the silence on too long because he's trying to figure out just which parts of his story he's going to tell Sam and which parts he's going to keep to himself. He won't tell Sam about his visions – those will only worry him and Sam doesn't need Dean's welfare to be added to the list of things he has to deal with. Should he tell Sam about Castiel? Maybe Sam's super lawyer powers will get him access to things that Dean shouldn't or can't legally get. Sam doesn't exactly know about Dean's late-night habits involving men but he doesn't think he'll be surprised either. Sam's kind of laid back like that, in a way.

He breathes out steadily. "I recognized someone," he finally says. And it sounds so stupid, because yeah, so he recognized someone. Hardly earth-shattering. "She… I'm almost positive she had something to do with the case. But that means that our mutual acquaintance might as well."

"Wait, back up." Sam holds a hand out across the table, catching Dean's attention. "How did you recognize her?"

"When I went out with Lisa, she was in the restaurant having dinner as well."

"Who with?"

"Some guy," Dean replies, trying to shrug it off as he turns his face away. "Point is, I think she has something to do with it. And I was going over the case files in my room and I just totally blanked out the past, like, six hours."

"You must have seen something," Sam says, pressing his lips together and frowning. "You must have figured out _something_ , in those files, something you hadn't seen before." Dean can feel his brother's eyes on the side of his face, calculating. Sam can read people almost as well as Dean can, he knows, and Dean shies away from being read like that but he knows he doesn't have anywhere to hide from Sam. Sam knows him better than anyone. "Tell me about the guy she was having dinner with."

Dean immediately goes tense. "What about him?"

"You tell me," Sam replies, bracing himself on his elbows against the edge of the counter. His eyes are sharp – he knows Dean's hiding something from him.

"He…" Dean sighs, rolling his eyes and rubbing a hand over his mouth.  "His name is Castiel. I met him a couple nights ago. I didn't…I can't read him right, Sammy." It feels like a dirty confession – this is what he _does_ , and the fact that when it comes to Castiel he had to resort to fucking _Google_ makes him sick to his stomach. "And he was having dinner with her and I should have known. I should just _know_ , shouldn't I?"

"You don't have to know all the time, Dean," Sam murmurs, concern and worry written clearly on his face and Dean wants to punch him because he needs to _stop looking at him like that_. "Even you can't see everything at once."

"I should have known." Dean stands, abruptly disconnecting himself from Sam and immediately missing the strong warmth of his little brother by his side. "I need to go back to those files. Something is missing. I _know_ it."

"Do you want some help?" Sam asks, standing also, paper and food forgotten, and though Dean wants to tell him not to worry about it, to stay and maybe go see Jess or whatever it is Sam chooses to do when he works late nights, he simply turns and heads back up to his room, unsurprised when he hears Sam follow. It is probably for the best – if he does freak out again at least Sam will be able to snap him back out of it.

"I don't have to remind you that this shit's still classified. At least Bradbury is – Blake and Milton might be written off by now, I don't know. They shouldn't be but apparently no one gives a fuck that they're all related somehow," he says, taking his seat on the futon again and sending Sarah Blake and Amelia Milton's file towards Sam, who sits down with his back against the wall and takes them. "Charlie Bradbury's the most recent," Dean adds, sending her file Sam's way also. "All different causes of death, all different settings and times and – Hell, there's not even climate or marital status tying them together. Charlie was a lesbian; Sarah and Amelia were hetero… Fuck." Dean rubs the back of his neck, sighing heavily. "There's no suspects for any of them yet except the woman I saw who knows the guy -."

"Castiel," Sam says hesitantly, like he's not sure if he's getting the name right.

"Yeah. Novak," Dean confirms with a nod, sighing and stretching out along the futon until he feels his spine crack. He feels exhausted and tense, and the futon smells like sweat and anxiety from his dreams on it. He turns his head to one side, listening to Sam's breathing and the occasional flicker of pages turning over, and spies the crossword puzzle book he had left unfinished. He sits up, then, reminded of his challenge to Castiel, and picks it up, flicking to the one he'd told Castiel to finish.

He almost laughs. "Son of a bitch," he mutters, garnering Sam's attention. "He didn't even finish it. Cheating bastard."

"Who didn't?" Sam asks, frowning over at his brother.

Dean swallows, setting the book down again. "Castiel may have spent the night here last night," he says, rolling his shoulders and half expecting an outburst from Sam, but all he gets is a slight widening of Sam's eyes and a jerky nod. "I, ah, wanted to see if he could finish it." He gestures to the book in question. "Turns out he hadn't – just made me believe he had."

"…Oh," Sam replies, choosing to not delve into the subject further, and goes back to the case studies. Dean trails off again, swallowing, eyes narrowing when he looks back at the book once more. He picks it up again, fingers trailing over the missing squares – or rather, the incorrect ones. The missing answer – the capital of Mozambique – is instead full of a random mesh of letters than the actual answer.

He'd tried to make it look like he'd solved the damn thing. Instead of leaving it blank, admitting the wrong and the ignorance, Castiel had tried to deceive Dean. Tried to lead him astray.

That, he thinks, says an awful lot about him.

"Dean," Sam says, brow furrowed and snapping Dean out of his thoughts. "These dates…they're all pretty close together, considering their geography." Dean nods – he'd thought of that too. "And you're absolutely positive that they're connected somehow?" Another nod. "Then, well, that means whoever is doing this knows exactly when and where they're going to have to hit. If we take into account the fact that a murder like this would probably take a day or two to stake out, and driving time and everything…These weren't spur of the moment kills, were they?"

Dean shakes his head. "Charlie's was. I don't think she was the original target. I think she was an accident. She…" He presses his lips together, remembering the raw betrayal painted onto the walls. "Our suspect wanted something from her and when she refused to give it, they killed her." He shrugs one shoulder, swallowing and looking back down at the crossword puzzle. "She didn't have to die. Her own hubris made sure she did."

"Amelia had a kid," Sam murmurs, flicking over to her case file. "But the child and the father went missing before her death? And they found her back with…Claire?"

"Yeah," Dean replies, straightening a little because Sam has this tone in his voice like he's about to say something very important – like he's leading Dean towards a revelation. "She filed a missing person's report two days before Claire showed up with her body. Time of death was the same day, though, so someone took her and brought her back specifically to kill her. Like a message?"

"And the father…" Sam turns another page, folding it back and holding the file up so that it receives better light. "Huh. That's weird."

"What is?" Dean asks. He hadn't paid much attention to the father – he was a different case file anyway and, in Dean's head, unimportant because there has been no discernible reason for his death. A tragic accident that left him on the side of the road with no I.D. or anything on him until he'd been I.D'd later by his mother.

"Claire and James – the father – had the same last name, but Amelia was listed under her maiden name." Sam's mouth twists, eyes narrowing as he tries to decipher the tightly-woven scrawl. "Claire and James were…does that look like Novak or Nomak?"

What? "Novak?" Dean repeats softly, his voice suddenly leaving him in a harsh gust as he all but dives for the folder Sam is holding, grabbing at the notes and staring in shock. How can he have not seen it? There, in tiny scrawl within the Officer's Notes: _prime suspect, husband-father Jimmy Novak, deceased_. No picture, but there doesn't need to be. Novak is hardly a common name within the United States, and now…now a Novak has shown up at two crime scenes. "Oh my God."

"What?" Sam asks, leaning over Dean's shoulder to stare at the writing, but Dean isn't looking at the folder – staring out, he presses the folder back into Sam's hands, and it feels like he cannot breathe. "What, Dean, what is it?"

The windows are darkening, light fading and shadows merging into the form of the giant black cat, teeth bared and dripping saliva onto the floor. Dean sucks in a breath, shrinking back against the wall as he sees it coming closer. Vaguely, he can hear Sam's voice, Sam calling for him, but he dares not look away from the giant red-black eyes of the cat, curling up next to the window as though about the pounce on him. Its ears are flat against its head, tail poised like a serpent over its back, and Dean swallows, sure that it will pounce on him at the first movement he makes.

"Dean!" Sam's hand on his shoulder, shaking him hard, snaps him out of it, and abruptly the shadows flee from the room leaving the twilight of the setting sun shining through, and Dean gasps, new sweat broken out along his hairline, his skin clammy and pale once more as he tries to recover from the vision. Tries to convince himself that if he blinks the cat won't resurface. "Dean, what is it? What did you see?"

"I have to go check something," Dean says, pushing himself abruptly to his feet and shoving Sam's hand off of his shoulder. At least, he thinks that might be the words he tries to say, but they mostly come out as a jumbled mess and he isn't sure if Sam understands him. He staggers out of the end room and down the corridor, past his bedroom. The giant cat is rolling around on his bed, there, purring loudly as its fur sheds against the dirty sheets.

He runs down the stairs, all but fleeing towards Sam's office where their only computer is, and he slams the door shut behind him. This room is too small for the cat to get into, he knows, and hurriedly he sits down and boots the computer up. Sam has his computer password-locked, but Dean has known it since Sam bought the thing three years ago because, unfortunately, his brother is not very complicated when it comes to password protection.

"Come on, come on…" His eyes dart over the loading screen, expecting to see a flash of black fur in the dark reflections in the screen's corners. He can hear the animal pacing outside, just waiting for him, harsh growl thrumming inside of Dean's chest. "There we go."

His fingers fly over the keyboard, and he finally sits back with a heavy sigh when gets to the high school website for Charlotte Bradbury. Her familiar face is grinning at him from behind her uniform and lacrosse stick and he swallows when he sees the roaring head of a jaguar emblazoned on her chest. The black cat snarls at him from the picture, and with shaking fingers he follows the link down the left-hand side to the graduating class.

Eyes wide, trying to see everything at once, he scrolls down slowly. Bradbury is near the top, but just before her. "Oh my God." That's it – that's her. Sarah Blake. Farther down is Amelia Milton – younger, dainty and pixie-like and her eyes sparkling blue with life and happiness.

When he gets to the 'N's, he almost stops himself. There's no going back from knowing this – an undeniable link between the three murders (five, six if he counts the auxiliaries), that he cannot _un_ know once he knows. He'll have to tell Pike, and Henricksen, and they'll hunt Castiel and his lady friend out of town or arrest them or God knows what else and -.

Castiel could have murdered people. He could have been hiding in plain sight, throwing himself into Dean's line of vision to either hide or protect his friend, or to throw Dean off course entirely. Filling in the gaps instead of leaving blank squares.

He breathes out, pressing his mouth against his fist, and scrolls down.

There they are. James and Castiel Novak – twin brothers. Both graduated with honors, one headed for Illinois, the other for California, one with an interest in film and advertising, the other...criminal psychology. "Fuck," Dean whispers, almost laughing because it's just too fucking perfect. It's too fucking _perfect_.

"Dean?" Sam's voice is on the other side of the door, knuckles rapping against it before he pushes the door open to peer inside. "Dean, are you okay? Talk to me, man."

Dean looks between the two of them, and then clicks on the picture of James. "I found him," he tells Sam, shaking his head again and not sure if he wants to laugh or cry or shoot something. "Both of them – James and Castiel. Twin brothers. Fuck." He shakes his head once more and his breathing is shaky, leg jerking underneath the table because he can't sit still. He stumbles across a picture of the two of them, James with an arm slung around a young Amelia and kissing her on the forehead, his other hand resting on Castiel's shoulder as he grins at the two of them. They look so much younger, so much lighter in this stupid photograph. "This." He taps his finger against the screen, to the tan material slung over James' arm. "You even took his coat, didn't you, you son of a bitch."

"Dean, what -." They both turn and look up at the sound of knuckles rapping against the door, sharp and swift, and Dean fixed wide eyes on Sam, getting up from the chair after shutting down the computer. "Who is it?" Sam calls, already heading towards the door. Dean can feel the subtle shift in the air as he follows, feel the breath of the giant black cat down the back of his neck.

"My name is Castiel. I'm here to see Dean." Sam freezes at the name, wide-eyed gaze suddenly fixed on Dean. He spreads his hands out to his sides, unsure of what to do, and Dean quickly takes a deep breath, and goes to the door.

 _It might not be him_ , Dean thinks to himself, praying with all his strength that that was true, as he clenches his fingers tight around the doorknob and opens the door, forcing a small smile onto his face.

"Cas," he says, hopeful that his voice is convincing where his expression isn't. "Hey. Wasn't expecting you so late."

"My mother did teach me manners," Castiel replies with a toothy grin – one that looks so much more predatory than it did before, how had Dean not noticed? "I brought you one of those baked potatoes you recommended," he adds, holding up a brown takeaway bag bulging at either sides with the Styrofoam corners of a box. "They were very good – you have good taste."

"At least in food," Dean mutters, smiling despite himself. He can't see anything off about Castiel, and he's doing his best to look through the tainted lens of crime and grit that is still clinging to the backs of his eyes. He feels like he should be smelling blood in the air, but he doesn't. The cat has retreated. "Come on in."

Dean is glad to see that Sam had the good sense to flee so that Castiel won't see him – he might be in his office, he might be upstairs, the less Dean knows the better. He sets the baked potato down and turns to face Castiel, finds the man perusing his house with a calm curiosity. "I'm sorry again for earlier – I really don't know what happened."

"Perhaps I wore you out," Castiel replies with a slight smile, and Dean blinks, because Castiel is fucking _toying_ with him. "I promise to go easier on you in future."

"In future?" Dean repeats, unable to stop himself. It _can't_ be Castiel – because murder is a stain. Dean has seen it enough times to know what it looks like on a man. Too many lines around his mouth and across his forehead, too much darkness within his iris, too many calluses on his hands. A certain, unmistakable hostility that is evident in the set of a man's shoulders or the way he tilts his head when he talks. Castiel is not a murderer – he can't be. He _can't_ be. "You were planning on -?"

"I was rather looking forward to it," Castiel says with a shrug of his shoulder and a tilt of his head, and even freaked out as he is Dean cannot help but lick his lips at the thought of it. Maybe if he can get close again, tear back this man's skin; he can get a better read. As it is, Castiel is a blank wall to him, without fault or flaw.

Castiel is looking at him, eyes cool and dark, and Dean licks his lips again, eyes lowering from the scrutiny. The air between them feels electric, a constant shiver breaking out along Dean's skin where Castiel is a burning furnace in front of him. Blindly Dean reaches out, grabbing onto Castiel's shoulder, and pulls him in for a rough kiss, small of his back colliding harshly against the kitchen counter as Castiel slots in front of him, hands on either side of his body to cage him in, and kisses back.

He is a fire, hungry and merciless, salt and iron in Dean's mouth. He smells like outside air, like food and warmth, like the sweat of sex and the faint trace of someone's perfume. A hand is fisted in his hair, pulling him forward until the two of them stumble away from the kitchen, into the living room where there is one large, well-worn couch facing a modest television, a coffee table separating them and then Sam and Dean's dad's old leather recliner facing the couch.

With a soft snarl, Castiel shoves at Dean's shoulders until he falls back against the couch, circling like a prowling predator to come around and slide easily into Dean's lap. Dean sucks in a harsh breath, feeling the warmth and hard muscle of Castiel's thighs digging into him from either side, trapping him in the most delicious way. Then Castiel's mouth is back against his, biting his lower lip, tongue coaxing him to part and let Castiel in.

The shivery sensation feels like it's crawling deeper into Dean's bones, freezing and burning him from the inside out. His hips buck upwards of their own accord, one hand flattening along Castiel's thigh, the other wrapped tight around his shoulders to keep him close as they grind together, all sinuous muscle and harsh gasps against each other's lips. _"Cas_ ," Dean gasps, because he can't help himself, because he feels like he's shaking apart but here Castiel is, steady and unwavering and cool as an undisturbed lake surface. It can't be Castiel – it _can't_ be.

"Been thinking about this all day," Castiel growls, one hand flattened across Dean's head to stroke through his hair, nails a grounding scratch and twinge of pain. "How easy to opened up to me, how tight you were. And your _mouth_ -." Dean kisses him again, because Castiel needs to stop _talking_ – those words are throaty and rough, like the snarl of an animal and already the room feels like it's too dark. There's no light in Castiel's eyes anymore.

But he wants it – he wants this man, dark and dangerous and completely unreadable. Dean wants him more than his lungs can handle – he can't find the air to make them work, to make himself speak. He should be pushing Castiel away, calling Pike, demanding answers, but he can't and he won't and Castiel must know something about it because he's kissing Dean like he wishes to consume him totally.

"Cas, please," he whispers, because it's all he can bring himself to say, nails digging into Castiel's thigh and shoulder tight enough to bruise, hips arching up. He feels like his mind has been ripped away from him, leaving him in pure animal instinct, and he _wants_.

Castiel pulls back suddenly, jerking Dean up by the hand, and forces him into another harsh kiss that leaves Dean's mouth feeling bruised and tender. Fingers still tightly interlaced in Dean's hand, he pulls the younger man back out of the living room and towards the bathroom under the stairs. It's barely big enough for Dean to stand in, only a toilet and a sink and mirror within it, but it's big enough for Castiel to turn Dean around so he's braced against the sink basin and can see both of their faces clearly in the mirror.

"Look at you," Castiel breathes, plastered to Dean's back, mouth opening hot and wet along his neck, and Dean shivers and flinches at the scrape of teeth across his nape. He can feel one of Castiel's hands working at the belt of his jeans, harsh pull when the belt is pulled too tight only for the sudden relief when it hangs free and loose. Castiel's other hand traces Dean's chest, pulling him backwards, and Dean can only watch in stunned silence as Castiel's hand flattens over his heart, fingers splayed out like a brand. "Do you feel strong right now, Dean? Sure?"

 _He knows, he knows_. Dean swallows, meeting Castiel's dark eyes in the mirror, and shakes his head, hanging it down to look at his shoes.

"But you are," Castiel continues, both hands moving down now to unbutton and unzip Dean's jeans, shoving them down around his thighs along with his underwear so that his cock is freed and he shivers again because the air feels frigid right now even though the rest of him is flushing hot. Castiel's hand wraps around his cock, damp and hot, and Dean bites his lip to stop himself making a sound. "No matter what you see. No matter what dirt and slime and filth scrapes itself from the city walls to your feet, you step over it with your eyes raised."

Dean lifts his head again, shocked and speechless, to meet Castiel's eyes. The man's gaze is steady and trapped, blue amber caged tight around an insect. "I wish I could say the same, but an animal has to bite back when bitten, doesn't it?"

Dean hisses, shoulders drawing in tight and tense when he feels two of Castiel's fingers press against him – it's too dry, way too fucking dry, and it'll hurt like a bitch if Castiel keeps going, but just when Dean thinks he just might, that something has snapped in Castiel too hard for him to keep up the cool façade, the man withdraws, and Dean relaxes when his touch momentarily stops long enough for him to reach into his pocket and pull out a sachet of lube.

Still, Dean is frozen. He should run – get Sam to call for backup, throw his elbow back and catch Castiel in the jaw or nose or chest or somewhere that will make him hesitate enough to get away. But Dean is frozen. He can hear the snarling of a wolf outside of the bathroom door, see the dark shadows moving with the steps of the pacing animal – the wolf is there and if he leaves it will rip him apart. He has to stay.

He _wants_ to stay.

"This wasn't how it was supposed to go," Castiel whispers, flattening his slick hand across Dean's hip again, making Dean suck in a breath when he feels the hard, wet line of Castiel's cock rubbing up against him, just barely batching on his rim. "But I suppose half of your charm is your deadliness."

Any reply Dean would have made is lost when Castiel abruptly begins to push into him – he's too tight, not stretched enough, and the lube stings where it touches him enough to make him hiss and shy away, but Castiel's grip is strong and unyielding, forcing Dean to stay put as he slowly – agonizingly slowly – pushes all the way inside.

Dean gasps when he bottoms out, body shuddering around the intrusion because it _hurts_ , it hurts like a bitch, and not in the pleasant-stinging way it had last night, but in the harsh, violent way of not-enough-stretch and too-fast-too-soon, and sweat has broken out along his hairline again. When he finally raises his head, his eyes catch sleek fur and blackness in the mirror and he startles, driving himself further backwards against Castiel in an attempt to recoil from the vision.

Castiel grunts, taking it as permission as he draws out and fucks in again, and Dean sucks in a shaky breath, his heart hammering because he can see the wolf, its eyes glowing a dark red as it stares at him with the mangled remains of the giant black cat in its mouth. He can almost hear it howling in victory inside of his head, and he tries to blink and shake it away and concentrate because Castiel is right behind him and he's hurting Dean and potentially a serial killer and Dean should really be trying to get himself out of this.

He opens his mouth, about to tell Castiel to stop, but all that comes out is a 'Please, Cas, more', in a soft, plaintive whine.

Castiel is an animal, low growls and red lines painted down Dean's sides by his nails, as he leans forward and mouths along Dean's shoulder through the thin protection of his shirt. The threat of teeth makes Dean go tense, the rest of his body clenching tight and earning a low, stifled groan from the other man. He's losing it – Dean can tell, in the way Castiel's breathing goes very slow and shaky, in the way his thrusts aren't even designed to please anymore, have dissolved into nothing more than a selfish chase towards his own gratification.

A particularly vicious thrust has Dean crying out, hand slamming up against the mirror to shatter the image of the wolf and cat that he is seeing, shards splitting apart from the blow under his hand, and the bite of pain from fractured glass centers and grounds him. When he looks up again, he sees his own face staring back at him, eyes blackened and lips bruised and red. Castiel is behind him, a shape twisted by lust and ire and Dean hangs his head again, unable to watch, unable to do more than simply reach back and knot his fingers into Castiel's, harsh enough to feel the dull friction of bones under his skin.

Castiel growls low at the bite of pain, nails finding their way into Dean's flesh as he thrusts into him several more quick, dragging times, before he's coming with a low, sated sound that Dean has already equated to Castiel's pleasure. There are several thin lines of blood crawling down Dean's palm and his forearm from the way his skin is shredding against the broken mirror, and his ass hurts from the rough fuck and little prep, but that sound makes Dean feel _satisfied,_ powerful because for a moment Castiel is incapacitated, and it's by his hand. This man is frozen solid because of him.

"I'll give you one chance, Dean," Castiel finally whispers, pulling out and tucking himself back in, looking completely unflustered now and Dean's heartbeat stutters – _he knows, he knows, he -._ "Leave town. Go to Europe like you said; fall in love with a runaway. But leave. Or I'll have to hunt you down."

Dean feels his blood run cold at the thinly veiled threat. He shivers, turning around in the limited space, pulling his clothes back up around his body because the paltry barriers are all he has right now. "I'm not fucking leaving," he hisses, because there's no point in denying it now, is there? That hostility that is so damn telling in a killer is rolling off of Castiel now, eyes black and lips pressed into a thin line. Dean reaches for the door, shoving it open and relieved in the back of his mind when he sees neither man nor beast outside. "No one is running me out of my own city."

Castiel's mouth twists, eyes flat. "Suit yourself," he says, advancing on Dean. Dean intentionally sharpens his gaze, widens his vision – looks for a weapon to use or a sign that Castiel might have one on him, sure that the other man would make a rush for him. Castiel pauses, suddenly, lips quirking up in a wry smile. "I'm not going to attack you, Dean." The idea almost seems absurd to him.

"Why wouldn't you?" Dean asks, eager to buy himself time. "I figured you out. You only have the option to run or surrender yourself."

His words seem to lure a laugh out of the other man, eyes glinting brightly like metal in moonlight. "You see so much, Dean," he says, shaking his head ruefully. "I could have made such a brilliant masterpiece out of you, if only I had more time."

"What -?" Dean stops, then, because someone is at his door – someone with their fists balled up and banging against the wood like he intends to beat it down if he gets no answer.

"Winchester!" Pike. It's Pike. Sam called detective Pike. What fantastic timing. "Open the door!"

For a moment, both Dean and Castiel are still, watching each other, their eyes darting between the door and the other man. Castiel's weight shifts, towards the kitchen island where the knives are, and Dean knows he has about two seconds before Castiel makes a move. When the older man's eyes flash away from him, gauging the distance, he bolts for the door, just to hear Castiel curse and heavy footsteps following him.

He makes it to the door in time, throwing it open and never so Goddamn glad to see Pike and Henricksen than he is right now. "Hey guys," he says, breathlessly, able to feel the cold glower of Castiel's eyes against his shoulders. "What can I do ya for?"

"Let us in, Winchester," Henricksen says before Pike can speak, and the other man looks haggard and worried, wringing his hands with each other, and Dean's reply is lost when Henricksen simply shoulders his way in, towards the kitchen. Dean sucks in a breath, expecting to hear a scuffle, expecting maybe Henricksen's body to come flying back towards them from a blow, or for the soft, telltale whistle of a knife. Nothing comes. "Ah, Special Agent Novak. Looks like you beat us here."

For a long moment, Dean feels like he cannot move. _What_? He dashes into the kitchen to see Castiel smiling, shaking Henricksen's hand, flashing teeth in a calm and friendly way. "You were right to send me here," Castiel says, rolling his shoulders as he lets go of Henricksen's hand, eyes flashing to Dean that are cool and calculating all over again. Dean can feel a giant pit opening in the bottom of his stomach.

Something's happening. Something's wrong.

He turns to Pike. "What the fuck is going on?" he murmurs to the other man, surprised when Pike flinches from him.

"You're under arrest, Dean Winchester," Henricksen says in answer, gesturing for two nameless officers to come forward, handcuffs at the ready. Dean is almost too stunned to resist them. Almost. "For the murders of Lisa Braeden and Special Agent Megan Williams."

"Wait, what?" Dean gasps, shrugging off the hands of the officers trying to arrest him, staring at Pike and Henricksen, only to receive worried helplessness and a calm, flat expression. His eyes turn to Castiel. "What the fuck did you do to them, you son of a bitch?"

Castiel presses his lips together, this look of sympathy on his face like he can't understand Dean's behavior. Like he only wants to help. Dean wants to run at him, punch him right in his lying face and rip him apart until everyone can see the dirty, scarred soul underneath – just like he can. He can smell the blood on Castiel now – it's his blood, and those women, and James Novak's. God, he reeks of it.

"He's bleeding," one of the men notices, a huff to his voice as he tries to fight Dean's arms behind his back, handcuffs snapping around his wrists with dreadful finality.

"He smashed a mirror," Castiel supplies, turning back towards Henricksen, voice flat like rattling off a report. "Came at me with a shard of glass before I was able to knock the weapon away. It's a good thing you came when you did, detective."

"You son of a bitch," Dean hisses, baring his teeth and spitting the words at the other man as they begin to drag him out. "I will prove this was you. I'll do it!"

"Dean, come on." That's Pike, stepping in front of him and trying to subdue him, and Dean feels like there's an animal crawling beneath his skin, ready to tear its way free. His fingers curl and dig into his own palms to stop himself lashing out.

Castiel sighs, turning back to Henricksen, and Dean can feel the poison seeping into his superior's ears from Castiel's tongue, knows that Henricksen will believe him because he _wants_ to believe him; wants to listen to the preacher-boy 'Special Agent', the avenging Angel, more than he wants to acknowledge that Dean was right, that this whole thing is way more complicated than any of them thought.

He doesn't call out for Sam, although he's damn-well tempted to do so; he doesn't need anyone knowing Sam is here, to get rid of the only advantage his baby brother has of slipping under this psychopath's radar. Although, if Castiel found out about Lisa, there's not much else Dean could do to protect Sam. He's failed – God, he should have been more aware, more observant. He should have _known_.

"I'll kill you," Dean whispers to himself when they duck his head down to get into the police car, glaring back through the open blinds where Castiel and Henricksen are standing, observing the scene from within. Dean doesn't know if Castiel can see him from the difference in light, but he hopes he can. He thinks Castiel can, because when he says the words again, he can see Castiel smile.


	5. Five

"What do you make of it?" Henricksen asks, rocking onto the balls of his feet and back to his heels, hands clasped behind his back as he watches Dean inside the interrogation room. Dean's eyes are focused on the mirror, barely paying attention to Pike and his questions, eyes tracking back and forth like he can find Castiel through the glass.

The other man sighs, shaking his head and pressing his lips together. "Dean Winchester shows classic symptoms of paranoid schizophrenia, with a narcissistic personality disorder. What brief instances I have seen have shown a predisposition towards violence and anger. He's delusional, and sure of himself, but in the brief time I have seen and known the man, I have begun to see him deteriorate at an alarming rate. I have seen him hallucinate several times in my presence. But," Castiel pauses, cocking his head to one side, "I would not have thought him capable of this. Has he had any blackout periods?"

"Pike's gotten nothing out of him," Henricksen says, rubbing the back of his head and looking with an unimpressed expression towards the hapless detective. Dean seems intent on ignoring him, barely giving the crime scene photos a second glance beyond confirming that it is in fact Lisa's body, and he recognizes the second woman as the woman from Charlie Bradbury's video footage, and Castiel's dinner. It's all so tightly linked and he wants to laugh because it's too fucking perfect – Castiel posing as a Goddamn Special Agent to throw him under the fucking bus. How could he have been so blind?

"Perhaps I should talk to him," Castiel suggests, tilting his head to one side, pursing his lips.

"He verbally threatened you, Novak," Henricksen replies with a raised eyebrow, "and you want to go one-on-one with the guy? You just said he leans towards violence, right? Somehow this 'delusion' you mention has put you on his radar."

"He is physically restrained," comes Castiel's reply, his mouth twisting in thought. "I would only say that any interview I conduct with Dean without his lawyer is unmonitored. It would potentially violate a doctor-patient confidentiality clause should this come to trial."

"We have the evidence," Henricksen argues, earning a dark look from the other man. "We've got him on leaving Williams' murder site and his DNA's all over Braeden's place. This is in the bag."

"Motive and means go hand in hand, detective." Castiel turns his gaze back onto Dean, who has given up trying to find him within the one-way mirror, and is instead delicately fidgeting with the edges of the photographs, eyes bright with emotion and upper lip twisted back in disgust. "Without one, the other is too easily weakened and broken apart. If you want both, I suggest you let me talk to him."

Henricksen sighs, throwing his hands up in the air. "Fine," he mutters, then leans forward and presses against the intercom. "Pike, get outta there. Novak wants a turn." As soon as he hears the name, Dean lifts his head, eyes narrowed and focused on the only door to the room in readiness, shoulders stiff and drawing in tight, fist clenching under the table.

Castiel follows Henricksen out of the observation room and around to the door leading to Dean. "You have fifteen minutes," Henricksen says sternly, jabbing a finger in Castiel's direction and waiting for the other man to nod before he hums, turning on his heel and striding away, Pike quick to follow.

As soon as they are out of side, Castiel lets the stiff posture melt away, a small smile on his face as he steps into the interrogation room and shuts the door behind him. He is turned away at first; unable to see Dean, but he can hear the man's breathing and feel his angry glare on the back of his neck. It's a rush, when he turns around, to see Dean so angry. He's breathtaking in his anger.

"You…" Dean cuts himself off, then, glaring downward, and Castiel has to admire his restraint, because anything he says can and will be held against him, et cetera and so forth.

He smiles more widely, coming to sit down opposite Dean, his legs stretched out so that one brushes against Dean's calf and the younger man visibly flinches, gritting his teeth and pulling his leg away. "Pretty smart what you did here," he mutters, gesturing towards the photos that got left behind, to the smear of yellow paint that exactly matches that outside his door along Lisa's front window, the ruffled sheets with the night's wet spot still barely visible, the way her blood had sprayed across everything but what would mark him as present at the murder. "But killing your own partner…" He shakes his head. "That's cold."

"I didn't kill her, Dean – you did, remember?" He laughs at Dean's glare. "It was always within the plan," Castiel replies coolly, sitting back and earning a surprised look from Dean. "We're not being monitored here, Dean," he adds, gesturing around them. "I'm a Special Agent."

"That business card I saw," Dean murmurs, licking his lips when Castiel tilts his head, "in your coat pocket. That was Jimmy's, wasn't it?" Abruptly, Castiel's eyes darken, his jaw clenching tight, and Dean bares his teeth in a grin when he sees that he's struck a nerve. "You slaughtered your own brother, your sister-in-law and niece. Your high school friends, Lisa, and I guess whoever-the-fuck Meg was. What for?"

"I did _not_ kill him," Castiel hisses, and Dean leans back, almost startled at the force of Castiel's glare. "Or Claire. Or my friends."

"You expect me to believe you?" Dean challenges, eyebrows raised. "Prove your innocence, then. Give me a name."

The other man cocks his head to one side. "I can give you two. But not right now."

"Why the Hell not?"

Castiel sighs, shaking his head, and looks down at the photographs spread across the table between them. "I'll admit, I have a bit of a…jealousy problem," he says, cocking his head to one side. "I saw you leaving that harlot's home. It made me angry." Wordlessly he reaches forward, taking a picture of Meg from the table and pulling it towards him, idly turning it over by the corners in his hands. "You're going to rot in here, Dean," he says, one corner of his mouth quirking up high, eyes flicking up to meet Dean's briefly. "I left enough evidence in there to put you away with ease." Their eyes meet again, anger and triumph clashing together in the air. "I'm almost disappointed. You had such a legend preceding you; I'd have thought you'd be better."

"I will hunt you down," Dean whispers, fingers curling against the table. "If I have to serve time, or post bail, or break out myself, I will find you. I'll make you pay for this."

Castiel grins widely, eyes brightening. "If you get out of this," he says softly, leaning forward, "I would be offended if you didn't. I enjoy playing our games, Dean – really I do. And…" His eyes rake over Dean, predatory and sharp enough to make Dean shiver, his fingers digging dully into his injured hand. "I enjoy many other aspects about our relationship as well. You and I could go very far together, Dean. I could make you into something truly incredible."

Dean snorts, shaking his head and sitting back. "I don't want anything from you."

"You're breaking," Castiel insists, tone low and fervent and almost pretty damn convincing. He's a spider within in web, Dean just managing to skirt the edge. "I can see it in you, fracturing apart from your core. You need a center, a guide. I could be that for you."

"I'm not going to be your pawn," Dean growls, eyes narrowing in anger. "Whatever daddy issues or brother issues or whatever the fuck it is you're working through, don't you dare try and draw me into it. I want nothing to do with you."

Castiel smiles, pushing himself to his feet, and walks around the table so that he's standing near Dean. Dean's fingers clench tight, wanting to lash out, to hurt the man, but that sure as Hell wouldn't help his case and he wouldn't be able to do enough significant damage to Castiel in the time he has. He settles for glaring, tense and stiff when Castiel leans down and rakes a hand through his hair, tilting his face up for a harsh, biting kiss against his mouth. He doesn't fight it, but he sure as Hell doesn't participate either, snarling low against Castiel's teeth when he finally wrenches his head away, hears Castiel gasp and chuckle lowly against his ear.

"You are a beautiful creature," he whispers, petting through Dean's hair again. "Like a prowling wolf." Then, he straightens, turning to leave. "I'll see you on the other side, Dean. I hope you'll at least make it interesting. After all, I'd hate to have to give you extra incentive – that young woman Sam is dating; she seems so lovely and innocent." Dean tenses again, frozen to his core, eyes widening when he looks up at Castiel. "And Sam himself…well, if you didn't see me coming, I'm sure he won't either."

"You son of a bitch," Dean gasps, unable to believe that Castiel would go that far for what he wants – the others had motive, he knows now; Lisa and Meg were to get a reaction out of him, to get him in enough trouble that Castiel had him cornered. Sam and Jess… "Don't you dare touch them!" he yells, struggling against his bonds as Castiel laughs and lets the door close behind him. "You son of a bitch! I'll kill you if you touch him, I swear to God!"

He can almost hear Castiel's laughter in his head, as he breathes deep and tries to rack his brain to think of a way to get himself out of here, out of this. He needs bail, needs a way out, and needs an opportunity to _think_ , God, just _think_ …

He can't afford bail, if he'll even get it. Castiel could tell them anything about him, and they'll believe it. Something is nagging at him, though – something will go wrong, it has to. They can't pin this on him; they know he would never do something like this. Right?

He looks up at the sound of the door opening again, and finds Pike shuffling in, looking nervous and worried and guarded. "Pike," he whispers, urgently, "you gotta believe this wasn't me, man. I would never do something like this!"

Pike doesn't answer, merely presses his lips together and looks down at the folders in his hands.

Dean growls, slamming his hand on the table. "Damn it, man! We've worked together for years – you _know_ I would never hurt _anyone -_."

"Dean," Pike sighs, running a hand through his hair and then over his face. He closes his eyes, heaving a sigh again, before taking his seat in the chair opposite. "I do believe you." He doesn't pause long enough to take in Dean's startled expression, before shoving the folders towards him. Along the edges Dean can see the names of Blake, Bradbury, Braeden, Milton and Williams. "I did some digging of my own, and I think you were onto something. There's too much evidence here against you – and that only happens when someone's sloppy as shit, which I know you _aren't_ , or when someone's being framed." Dark eyes flash up to meet Dean's, guarded and stony. "I believe it wasn't you. I'm gonna get you out of this, man."

"How long will that take?" Dean asks, relieved to know that at least _one_ person in this shitstorm believes him, but still tense because Castiel will _walk_ for this and that means Sam and Jess could be in danger.

"I'll put pressure on the D.A., try and get bail posted on you. Could be as early as tomorrow."

Dean shakes his head. "That's not soon enough," he says, scrubbing his nails across his scalp. "He's gonna go after people while I'm in here, Pike – my brother and his girlfriend, anyone I've talked to. He knows I'm onto him."

"You know who it is?" Pike asks, and Dean nods, pressing his lips together. "Who?"

Dean shakes his head. "I can't tell you that," he whispers. "All the evidence I got's circumstantial. I need a confession, otherwise my tip will let him know you guys are onto him too. You just gotta get me outta here, Pike. Please."

Pike nods, standing. "Don't let me down, Winchester," he says before picking up the photographs and rushing out, leaving the files behind. Dean stares at them for a moment, frowning and tilting his head and wondering why Pike would leave them behind. Maybe he expects Dean to leave him a clue – maybe there's more in these ones that Dean missed before: Pike's own notes or extra details left out of even his copies.

Curious, he opens the one on Amelia Milton and Claire Novak, grimacing at the crime scene photos. How could someone do that to their own flesh and blood, Dean would never know.

His fingers curl over the frank, bullet-pointed list of Claire Novak's autopsy report. The bullet hadn't been what had killed her, but brutal blunt force trauma to her ribs and stomach. Son of a bitch had beaten the shit out of the little girl, leaving her to bleed out from the inside while he cut up her mother right in front of her. Fucking murderous psychopath.

"I will get you," Dean whispers to no one in particular, and when he looks back up at the one-way mirror, he sees the wolf, baring its teeth back angrily and staring right back at Dean, ears flat against its skull, hackles raised, ready to pounce. "One way or another."

The wolf seems to snarl in assent.

 

 

The bail is posted at five hundred thousand dollars, and a surrender of Dean's passport.

Dean can't afford that kind of money. That fact doesn't seem to stop an unnamed officer from coming to his holding cell thirty-one hours later, dangling a set of keys and playfully telling Dean that he's been let off his leash.

When he gets home, he finds an envelope taped to his door, and he shoves inside and opens it. Inside is a British passport with his face, the name _Jacob Grey_ in bold on the inside. His upper lip curls back in a snarl when he finds the note attached, unraveling it swiftly.

 _Consider me your rich uncle who broke you free,_ it reads _. Argentina has no extradition laws. Don't disappoint me. Love, Castiel._

Dean reads it again. And again, and again until the words begin to blur together and his shoulders are shaking with near-hysterical laughter. Of course. Of-fucking-course. Immediately he runs down to the kitchen, setting fire to the note and putting it into the sink. Sam is nowhere in sight, but when Dean goes up to his room he finds his little brother's huge shape in the blankets, and can hear him snoring. It doesn't smell like blood.

Even then Dean flicks on the light, just long enough to disturb Sam so that he rolls over and grimaces against the lightness, rolling onto his other side. So he's still alive. Dean has to believe that Jess is too. If she isn't, Dean will find out about it, and he'll gut Castiel like a fucking fish if he has to.

He still has his phone, and when he pulls up Castiel's number and texts a quick, sure _I'm after you_ , he almost doesn't expect a response. He's still packing when his phone vibrates with a short, sweet _I'll be waiting._

"Look at me," he mutters to no one in particular, "chasing down a man like a lovesick psychopath."

He doesn't leave a note for Sam – he can't. Too many questions, too many things to tie Sam to him and he can't drag his brother in like that. He loves Sam, and to protect him that means he'll have to wait this one out. He'll come home eventually, and consequences aside, he will make sure Castiel serves time for what he's done. Hell, some small part of him hopes that the bastard will get a lethal injection for his trouble.

Inside of his car, he grimaces at the feel of something hard and plastic sticking into his thigh. Moving, he feels out for the thing and brings it to his eyes, seeing that it's a worn-out cassette player. On it, in Castiel's familiar scrawl, are the words 'Jimmy and Claire'.

He almost doesn't want to listen. But, turning the key in the ignition, he puts the cassette in and pushes Play.

"Cas – oh, fuck, Cas, she's after us. She figured us out. No, no Claire, sweetie, just calm down, okay? I'm trying to talk to your uncle – Cas -." There's the sound of tires swerving, a young girl's startled cry. "Just, fuck, please believe what I told you, okay? Amelia's _gone_ , I don't know where to find you, please, please be okay man – go find Charlie or Sarah, they'll help you. Fuck, Claire, stop!"

The tape abruptly ends. Dean rewinds it and listens again, and again.

Then, he sits back, and breathes out.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he takes it out and looks at the new text from Castiel; _That was the last time I heard his voice. I could have saved Claire, at least, but someone got to her first._

_I need you, Dean. I need someone with your eyes._

Dean's mouth twists, and he turns the car on fully, pulling it out from the covered awning where she's been living for the past few months – in a city like this, it's easier to walk. Dean doesn't even remember if it's in his name, or his dad's.

Argentina has no extradition laws. Castiel knew when he had finished playing the tape – he's probably watching right now.

Argentina has no extradition laws. Castiel wants him to go there – deliberately dropped the hint. Argentina. Croatia, too. And Dubai.

He has a passport. Castiel has a contact that can get him one – maybe it was one of the last things he made Charlie do before he killed her. If he killed her.

Dean sighs, ejecting the tape, and instead puts in a Metallica cassette, turning it up loud. Too many variables – he'll need to find a new base, narrow his search. The world is a lot bigger than his fair city, and he has no idea what the time limit on it is.

No sense getting lost inside of his own head. He has a Hunt to begin.

**The End (for now).**


End file.
